Dear Philippa,

 

I had to drive down to Brighton this week for the College of Psychiatrists’ annual meeting, and when the word got out I was ruthlessly manipulated into collecting from Hull two old ladies, my sister and my cousin, and delivering them to Horsham for a visit with yet another cousin. As I loaded their luggage into the car I noticed them peering eagerly into the boot. I think they were hoping to see a crate of Mackeson Stout.

 

I estimated that the journey down should take five hours, but realistically, having factored in lunch and bladder stops, I allowed for six hours. I was spot on. We stopped for an early lunch at The George in Stamford, arriving at 11.30. It is a splendid place in many ways, but I had forgotten their inflexibility. We asked for coffee and sandwiches, but this was not possible before noon. We were offered coffee and Danish pastries. When I protested we were told we could have a bacon sandwich. So, I said, we can have a sandwich provided it’s got bacon in it? Yes, because that comes from a different kitchen. I considered the possibility of checking into a room and ordering room service sandwiches, which we could eat sitting on the bed, but of course you can’t get a room key before 2pm. It’s a classic case of a business that has become so focused on its processes that it has lost sight of why it is there – in this case providing me with things to eat. The bacon was good.

 

The meeting in Brighton went well and I used the opportunity to tackle a psychiatrist about the recent proposal, from I think the BMA, that OAPs should be restricted to half a pint of beer or equivalent a day, and that GPs should routinely breathalyse all patients over sixty-five. I was hoping for a row, but instead he said “A gin and tonic, perhaps two, before dinner and five or six glasses of wine with it and a port to round it off. Then a scotch before turning in. That sounds about right.” Very slippery of him, I thought, to avoid a row in this way, but wise nevertheless in his prescription. Do they really imagine that we are going to allow our doctors to administer breath tests, or that GPs will even consider such intrusion? And if we do, and they do, what happens if we fail – stop our medication, or feed us Antabuse under supervision?

 

Anyway, on the journey home (via Hull of course) lunch was again an issue and after the frustration at the posh hotel I had a fancy for a visit to a Little Chef whose flexibility is a by-word. You should try their All Day Breakfast. And now that the telly chef, Henry Blofeld, is advising them their standards have risen to new heights of excellence. Here is a business that has not forgotten why it is there. If you go to their website you will find an AA-style route-planner which incorporates on its maps the location of every Little Chef. Very enterprising. But it was not to be – we stopped at a pub that looked promising where, although it was dreary inside, I was served the best omelette outside my own kitchen.

 

An interesting week, but I do wish I had been a fly on the wall in Horsham when the ladies were revisiting their childhood. I couldn’t help noticing that one of them clambered into the car clutching a bottle of brandy in a brown bag (I peeked). Maybe the breath test is not such a bad idea after all.

 

Best wishes

 

Howard