I know I should be writing something topical about the two teams playing for the Super Bowl in 3 days time, or commenting on the bile emitting from Donald Trump’s mouth, aided and abetted by another loon, Sarah Palin. But that’s the beauty of having one’s own blog, and I can make the rules as I wish. So allow me to take you back in time to last November.
We usually spend Thanksgiving in England visiting relatives because if you fly standby as we do, most Americans stay home for the big holiday which gives us a better chance of securing seats on the plane. We were indeed fortunate to board the plane since we competing with a hoard of standby passengers eager to sample the delights that London has to offer.
We stayed at the Holiday Inn, Farnborough which is lagging slightly behind the new century, but nevertheless provided a fabulous British cooked breakfast. It was probably the best cooked breakfast experience I’ve encountered in a hotel/bed & breakfast in the past twenty years.
We spent a day at Milestones in Basingstoke, Hampshire with my son and two grandchildren. Milestones is a unique concept. It’s a museum depicted the 1930s and upwards with several exhibits and artefacts reliving a bygone era.
We visited a pub in the evening, the Waverley Arms, which offered a pint of Bollocks. Unfortunately there was none available which may have been my good fortune. Not to worry, we late dined at a very good Indian restaurant in Farnham, and the absence of a pint of bollocks made the meal far more appetizing.
Our trip was a short one, and it wasn’t long before we were sitting at Heathrow Airport anxiously waiting for our names to be called from the standby list. Flying standby can be frustrating, stressful and irritating all rolled into one enigma, and this trip was no exception.
We tried two days running without success, and we were forced to retreat to The Heathrow Hilton. This was some consolation for not be able to board a plane home, and was only available because my wife travels on business around the world building up a cacophony of points. We had little enthusiasm for travelling up to London to visit tourist attractions we had seen countless times, so we decided to do our version of the “Yoko and John sit-in.”
An executive room at Heathrow Hilton provided a splendid shower and we dined on complimentary heavy hors d’oeuvres which softened the blow of being bumped twice off our plane home. Not much to watch on the TV except for Great Britain winning the Davis Cup for the first time since 1936. Three times through Airport security works a charm and we finally secured our flying wings home.
Christmas was rather uneventful, and in a blink of an eye we were tentatively driving in torrential rain with friends towards Savannah; making our annual New Year’s Eve pilgrimage. Savannah is an ideal city to welcome in the new year. It’s a walking city dripping in history with a friendly and hospitable Southern charm.
Molly Macpherson’s is a Scottish style pub which serves a wonderful bowl of mussels the flavor of which is further enhanced by a pint of Bellhaven ale. We reserved a table at the Boar’s Head for New Year’s Eve. My friend is always anxious to know the waiter or waitress’s name, and upon request she informed us her name was Brandy. That triggered the song in my head, and I made a feeble attempt at singing it. Thanks to my android I was reminded the song was a hit for “Looking Glass” in 1972. I know this sounds like meaningless trivia but wait for the payoff.
We left the restaurant and made our way to City Market where a live band “High Velocity” were helping party revelers to greet the New Year with a bang. No sooner had we joined the crowd at the Market the vocalist announced their next song: “We would like to take you back a few years and play a song that was a hit for Looking Glass in 1972: Brandy!!!” Had we entered the Twilight Zone?
