Pub crawl

Back to Nottingham today. In the afternoon we visited my mum, who was cheerful and chatty, if not all that coherent. I was amused that she referred to the other three occupants of the ward, whom she considered not very good company, as "those old ladies"; the oldest must have been ten years younger than she is.

In the evening, as there was virtually no food in the house and not much point buying any, we went on a pub crawl. We started by sharing a fish platter in a surprisingly quiet Trip to Jerusalem. Last time we were in Nottingham on a Friday night it was quite scary. Not sure what's changed, but it was very calm. We walked back up Derby Road, stopping in another pub that is dug into the sandstone, the Hand and Heart. Two medium glasses of white wine: "That'll be £10.60 please." "Bloody hell." For two-thirds of the price of one of these glasses you could have two drinks and two plates of fried fish in Los Pajaritos. Shocking ... 

Finally for old time's sake we called in at the local, the Sir John Borlase Warren (blip). It used to be a plain old neighbourhood boozer; it's clearly gone up in the world with shabby chic decor, chandeliers, half a dozen real ales, and a menu of fifty different kinds of gin. It was much more convivial than the Hand and Heart though, with a mixture of students, young professionals, and elderly locals all enjoying themselves. Especially the group in a side room around a large table littered with gin bottles and empty glasses -- I think they must have been having a tasting. And the drinks were reasonably priced too: wine a snip at £4 a glass.

Enough was enough though, and we walked the rest of the way home in a mellow mood.