It’s tempting to put your feet up, after a day of travelling. After all, there’s always TV.
But put your brave boots on and go for a walk, even if it’s after dark; treasure awaits.
Chichester on a Friday night bustles. Posh ladies escorted by dapper gents going to a pre-theatre dinner at Mirvena restaurant were more acceptable to the receptionist, who suggested down her nose that I would be best suited to the sandwich Cafe across the road.
Towards the city centre, shop windows glowed with pre-Christmas promise. Reindeer and snowmen mix with baubles and tinsel. I get the link between Tweed clothing and deer, gloves and snowmen, but tinsel and lawyers?
A country-style pub bursting with laughter beckoned, especially when they promised a meal, drink, cricket on the big screen, and a table for one. No snobs here. The meal arrived super-quick, looking exactly as hoped. But looks are deceiving. That rump steak should have been ashamed of itself. Despite the meat being juicy, even the steak knife couldn’t cut through it’s gristle. The chef had obviously tried to present well, and the chips were spot on, but there’s no grill that can cover up poor meat.
The Assistant Manager apologized for the pile of gristle left over. But we had so much more to talk about; she’d spent three years orthopedic nursing not far from my home! It’s extraordinary how a person can be homesick for somewhere they lived for such a short time. I thought she was going to cry. We hugged; strangers uniting in the middle of a busy pub.
Back to the meat… the chef was called. It turns out that the Iron Cross is part of a pub chain, and the absentee owners provide all consumables. The local staff have no say. How depressing for a good chef to have to work with such rubbish, and all power to him for achieving what he manages.
Walking on, I hear a skinny young lad with muddied knees excitedly reliving the soccer goal he scored, and a bunch of teenagers arguing about a scientific theory. The joy in hearing a husband assuring his exasperated wife that his shoes were the only ones he could find, was tempered by the sight of a sleeping bag and supplies neatly laid out in a subway.
Across at the Chichester Festival Theatre, in seat E65, I watched as grey-haired folk found awkward ways to get to their seats, despite the best efforts of efficient ushers. A theatre employee took the time to explain to a gent accompanied by a guide dog that about three minutes in there would be an explosion. There’s class in such a level of care.
‘A journey around my father’ by John Mortimer plays well when done by actors who understand their roles. After the production, some cast members stayed back to answer questions, which revealed interesting detail about a touring company’s life.
As to the play itself, one should always remember that autobiographical work is presented through the lense of the subject, conveniently omitting anything which doesn’t fit the picture they want to present.
Leaving the theatre, I realized I had made a blue. Having been collected at the railway station earlier in the day by my host, I didn’t know the address where I was staying! And I couldn’t text her as it was very late.
Looking for things I’d seen on my way into town, there was relief in finding the ‘street closed’ sign, the house with the Christmas tree, the bus stop where an empty cola can stood sentinel, the pallet of roofing tiles. And then, whew, my host’s sports car outside her apartment building. Now, which key does which door….
Stories for you - Enjoy! 