On Saturday night we came back from dinner and turned on the tv. For the last 6 minutes of the England vs Scotland world cup qualifier. Mel insisted. England 1-0 up, all comfortable, what could possibly go wrong?

Scotland scored from a free-kick. Major bummer. Gordon Strachan leaping round like a mad thing. Two minutes later they get another free-kick. Same guy, same thing, another sodding goal. Strachan needing treatment from a physiotherapist and two psychotherapists. Game in injury time and the Scots, who are pretty much incapable of beating anyone, are 2-1 up against the most hated foe. Hamden positively electric with glee and the sound of drunken Scottish merriment.

Third minute of injury time, ball comes across the Scottish box, running to the far post is a modern-day God. Harry Kane, rushing forward, eye over his shoulder on the ball, volleys neatly, calmly, precisely into the goal. 2-2. Game over. Strachan carried off by men in white coats.

And all this to add joy to my Scottish trip.

Then we stayed at Ackergill Tower. A 15th Century castle now a ‘luxury’ hotel, standing on the coast in 400 acres, usual stuff. They didn’t say ‘restored to its original state’ because we like windows and lights. But I think the plumbing was original. Call us odd but in our wordly travels we’ve come to admit that we greatly prefer the somewhat austere and stark minimalist efficiency in the Marriott/Four Seasons/Premier Inn(?) mode to ‘country house tweed’, suits of armour, 16 flights of liftless stone staircases lit by candles. But heh, you’re in northern Scotland, ya get wot yer given.

Which wasn’t our dinner. Because they forgot to bring it. We sat, we drank, we drank more, we’d had our starter, which were totally fab, and we waited. Eventually, after we questioned, they had an ‘oh shit!!!’ moment. The order was lost? Misplaced?? Who knows. Have a free drink on us. Hic. Shit happens, meal was eventually totally superb.

Next morning, as you do, you sit in the same place where you dined just a few hours before, and await breakfast. “Sorry” said the waitress, never a good start to any conversation, particularly when food’s involved. “Sorry but the chef hasn’t turned up so you can only have serials, fruit, cold shit. We’re trying to get another chef shipped in and he may come soon…”

Fawlty Towers. You know the one. It all made sense. My first thought was ‘no-one here is capable of cooking an egg??’ then realised that I really didn’t need it, could live without and would take the credit on the bill.

And I’m still laughing about it now.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx