May contain nuts
There were no fireworks.
There was no big band, harpists or a chorus of angels.
But there was, in the days of ‘moonlighting’ and Cybil Shepherd; soft focus.
This was if truth be told, the result of far too much wine to blot out the jabbering of the Wokky next to me who was interviewing a guy for the prospect of coitus non interuptus. She crashed and burned but moved onto the next unsuspecting bloke by cooing adoringly at how lovely his little pooch was. Now was probably not the time to remind her that she was old enough to be his mother however well preserved she is!
But back to my soft focus. Yes, I had walked into or nearly fell into the lap of, my Milk Tray Man. Tall dark and devilishly handsome, I was hooked. Trying [convincing I felt] not to slur my words I leapt in with both feet about my love for the area and how much I wanted to live here. That I was an aspiring writer and wanted to come here to create THE masterpiece that would turn me into the next J K Rowling. At this point I failed to mention poetry as it tends to make people run a mile. He smiled and continued to put up with my chatter. I couldn’t shut up! When he could get a word in, my Milk Tray Man, it appeared, wasn’t on holiday, but lived in this heavenly place. He woke up every morning to the stunning blue skies and mountainous countryside that surrounded us. How envious was I? In my soft focus moment, I’d also failed to notice his distinct northern accent. My vision was coming back to earth with a bump as the bar we were in shut [but it’s only 1am!] and we had to move onto the next one. A ramble of countryside loving Brits on what I thought was ‘a session’ headed 200 yards without backpack or navigational equipment to get the beers lined up and continue the chat. Little did I know, this was normal drinking here!
Negotiating road, kerbs, parked cars and continuing to bend Milk Tray Man’s ear [although god only knows what twaddle I was talking] I realised my alcohol limit was at its peak. No more for me thanks! I glanced at the jabbering Wokky who was still pouting and preening at the boyman with the cute pooch; he seemed to be enjoying it so I left them to it. Somehow and I really don’t know how, well, other than my big mouth going into overdrive of alcoholic bravery, I was discussing the making of béchamel sauce with the hulking geezer next to me. ‘Rubbish, you can’t call it a béchamel with just milk and flour’. Was that me? Oops it was. The hulk turned to look, his mates too. Ooh, what had I done? I plodded on, all sense and sensibility gone, ‘you’ve got to steep the milk with bay leaves and cloves’ I kept on, what did he know? Milk Tray Man, leant into my ear, ‘he’s a chef.’ Did I shut up? Nope! ‘well, he ought to know better then!’ was my retort to which, Chef went through the full minutiae of making béchamel sauce.
I’d like to say, that Milk Tray Man walked us back to our hotel but, he didn’t; so I had the jabbering Wokky all to myself. Joy. In went the earplugs and out went the jabbering, for now.
I was surprisingly perky the next morning, even when I groaned about the béchamel sauce faux pas. Ah well, I wouldn’t see them again would I? And what about Milk Tray Man? Mmm. Dunno. Was it just the drink? I wandered to breakfast alone in my thoughts. The Wokky was still resting her jaw so I had peace and quiet over Lipton’s tea and tostadas and wondered what milk Tray Man would look like without the soft focus.