DOCTOR'S DIARY
Sunday July 19th.
What a wonderful morning! The sun is blazing down, the wind of the previous two days has dropped and the Pint family are off on their jolly holidays tomorrow. Consequently this will only be a short piece; I have been issued with all manner of tasks by she who must be obeyed. I have to go to the supermarket, tidy the house, pack the tent, camping stove, airbeds, sleeping bags, chairs, table, gas, lantern, buckets, spades, hairdryer, radio, camera, binoculars and hair straighteners. This last item is typical of the kind of things my children insist on taking with them. When I was a young man, camping meant a few days in the wild with a tent and a Swiss army knife. Today's campers refuse to leave home without their MP3 players and chargers, their DS game station and an array of equipment that would not be out of place in a hairdressing salon. I take three t-shirts, a pair of shorts and a change of underwear, my daughter assembles a collection of clothing that would shame Trinny and Susannah. "I can't fit all that in", I say, staring at enough outfits to fill Primark twice over. The belligerent Miss Pint stares balefully back and eventually deigns to remove a pair of socks, "I can't do with any less", she says firmly. I always thought that camping was about making do with a minimum hence I take the Swiss army knife and a torch. My son staggers down stairs with a bag crammed full of every electrical device known to man, "what are you planning to do when we get there", I ask incredulously, "open an outdoor branch of Currys?" Master Pint also gives me a derisory stare and tramps back to his room to fetch his other bag. The days of cooking over a fire made from old birds nests and eating from a tin can are also long past. "When I were a lad", I tell my family, "I used to get my water from a stream and accompany my baked beans with wild berries". They regard me with the kind of pitying looks that are normally reserved for the terminally sad. Mrs. Pint plonks down, what appears to be, the entire contents of our kitchen, "pack these please", she says, primly. I can confirm though one thing that hasn't changed over the years. When Master Pint and I require a comfort break in the middle of the night, the local hedgerow gets a good soaking!
Last night Mick and I celebrated Bros forthcoming birthday with a trip to the Coopers'. I was delighted to find Black Hole Stargazer (4%) available. This is a local microbrewery and I was keen to see what sort of product they are producing. I can tell you now that if Stargazer is typical of their output the answer is, 'very good indeed'. Mid-brown and very bitter it drinks quite beautifully and is a perfect session ale. Bro opted to first try the Thornbridge Kipling (5.4%), as this is also highly drinkable it makes it rather a dangerous beer to down. We were joined by Doog, who is seriously cranky, his son, The Yoof, who is barking mad but has occasionally lucid moments, and Roly. As the evening wore on The Yoof became more talkative and conversation turned to his pet subject of buses, and in particular, vintage models. I believe he actually owns one such which he drives around in a pall of exhaust smoke. While he and his old man conversed about sprockets and cotter pins I tried the Downton's Olympic Flame (4.1%) but found it unsatisfying by comparison to the Stargazer so at the earliest opportunity I returned to the bar for fresh supplies of the Black Hole beer. The Yoof had just returned from having a spaghetti thin roll-up outside, with a broad grin on his face. He gleefully pointed out of the window at the sign in the abominable Coors' brewery compound opposite. It read 'Fire Assembly Point', nothing funny about that I thought, and then he pointed to what stood just at the rear, a huge tank of liquid oxygen! I tried to take a picture but it was too distant to get any detail, however Doog produced from his copious pockets a digital camera with which he had been photographing railway sidings and sleepers and took a shot for posterity. Several pints of Black Hole later we sadly made our way home but with the lingering flavour of Stargazer in our mouths.
I shall be on holiday for the next week or so and will be back reporting on the beers I came across on Sunday August 3rd. Bye for now.
What a wonderful morning! The sun is blazing down, the wind of the previous two days has dropped and the Pint family are off on their jolly holidays tomorrow. Consequently this will only be a short piece; I have been issued with all manner of tasks by she who must be obeyed. I have to go to the supermarket, tidy the house, pack the tent, camping stove, airbeds, sleeping bags, chairs, table, gas, lantern, buckets, spades, hairdryer, radio, camera, binoculars and hair straighteners. This last item is typical of the kind of things my children insist on taking with them. When I was a young man, camping meant a few days in the wild with a tent and a Swiss army knife. Today's campers refuse to leave home without their MP3 players and chargers, their DS game station and an array of equipment that would not be out of place in a hairdressing salon. I take three t-shirts, a pair of shorts and a change of underwear, my daughter assembles a collection of clothing that would shame Trinny and Susannah. "I can't fit all that in", I say, staring at enough outfits to fill Primark twice over. The belligerent Miss Pint stares balefully back and eventually deigns to remove a pair of socks, "I can't do with any less", she says firmly. I always thought that camping was about making do with a minimum hence I take the Swiss army knife and a torch. My son staggers down stairs with a bag crammed full of every electrical device known to man, "what are you planning to do when we get there", I ask incredulously, "open an outdoor branch of Currys?" Master Pint also gives me a derisory stare and tramps back to his room to fetch his other bag. The days of cooking over a fire made from old birds nests and eating from a tin can are also long past. "When I were a lad", I tell my family, "I used to get my water from a stream and accompany my baked beans with wild berries". They regard me with the kind of pitying looks that are normally reserved for the terminally sad. Mrs. Pint plonks down, what appears to be, the entire contents of our kitchen, "pack these please", she says, primly. I can confirm though one thing that hasn't changed over the years. When Master Pint and I require a comfort break in the middle of the night, the local hedgerow gets a good soaking!
Last night Mick and I celebrated Bros forthcoming birthday with a trip to the Coopers'. I was delighted to find Black Hole Stargazer (4%) available. This is a local microbrewery and I was keen to see what sort of product they are producing. I can tell you now that if Stargazer is typical of their output the answer is, 'very good indeed'. Mid-brown and very bitter it drinks quite beautifully and is a perfect session ale. Bro opted to first try the Thornbridge Kipling (5.4%), as this is also highly drinkable it makes it rather a dangerous beer to down. We were joined by Doog, who is seriously cranky, his son, The Yoof, who is barking mad but has occasionally lucid moments, and Roly. As the evening wore on The Yoof became more talkative and conversation turned to his pet subject of buses, and in particular, vintage models. I believe he actually owns one such which he drives around in a pall of exhaust smoke. While he and his old man conversed about sprockets and cotter pins I tried the Downton's Olympic Flame (4.1%) but found it unsatisfying by comparison to the Stargazer so at the earliest opportunity I returned to the bar for fresh supplies of the Black Hole beer. The Yoof had just returned from having a spaghetti thin roll-up outside, with a broad grin on his face. He gleefully pointed out of the window at the sign in the abominable Coors' brewery compound opposite. It read 'Fire Assembly Point', nothing funny about that I thought, and then he pointed to what stood just at the rear, a huge tank of liquid oxygen! I tried to take a picture but it was too distant to get any detail, however Doog produced from his copious pockets a digital camera with which he had been photographing railway sidings and sleepers and took a shot for posterity. Several pints of Black Hole later we sadly made our way home but with the lingering flavour of Stargazer in our mouths.
I shall be on holiday for the next week or so and will be back reporting on the beers I came across on Sunday August 3rd. Bye for now.
Heaven
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Some of the characters mentioned here are profiled on the above page.
