Of all the places to throw up our dinner! The astonishingly appropriately named Wysick, pictured, was the lay-by where we ground to a halt as my friend Ruth cried, "I think I'm going to be . . "
Too late. And then Zoe-the-daughter decided to join in and liberally splattered the car seats and carpets. I watched in wonder as £98.60 worth of restaurant food was hurled over the car interior and the grass verge of Wysick.
|Posh sausage, with free pot plant.|
|Seabass on pea purée with gnocchi and crisped pancetta|
Only ten minutes earlier I had been taking photos of the fabulous food at Lockwood's Restaurant in Ripon. Joe-the-son had said, "Mum, I've got a free pot plant with mine." He then refused to eat his salad served in a terracotta pot because he wanted to take it home. I had to promise to buy an identical pot and serve his salad in it nightly.
Everything we ate was delicious and I was even tempted to try a pud. Actually, I tried a bit of everyone's - orange and almond cake, chocolate pot with shortbread, creme brulee. And no, I was not the one who threw up.
We had spent the entire day at Lightwater Valley theme park. Click on the link and it will take you straight to a video of 'The Ultimate' - the longest rollercoaster in England (or was it the world?) and scary as hell. If any woman is wondering if she needs to do pelvic floor exercises, forget the thing where you are supposed to skip with a full bladder as the test. Just do this ride with an empty bladder for the The Ultimate Bladder Control Test. I recommend that you go on the Wild River Rapids next so you have an excuse for the wet patch. Actually, before would be better.
But it was not the food or the rides that brought on the biliousness. It was that notorious bit of bendy road over Blubberhouses that did it. Combined with Ged's driving. I was actually googling 'Blubberhouses', hoping to discover how it got its silly name, when Ruth started throwing up (click on the link for Wikipedia's explanation). And I had just been telling everyone how I had once been for a trial as a private chef only a mile or so away from where we were. The estate was called Sicklinghall. My mother had been appalled that I would have 'Gill Watson, Sicklinghall' embroidered on my chef's jacket. The man (now a Lord) had a mistrust of clingfilm and liked everything to be covered in foil. This meant everything looked the same in the fridge which was way too confusing for me. He also said that he was allergic to onions and garlic which was the clincher as far as I was concerned. I can't think of any dish I have ever made which does not contain either onion or garlic.
So, there you have it. First day back from the holiday (can't blog about that until I've got the photos from Ged's 'phone) and disaster struck us once again. Ged and I struggled to get to sleep that night because every time we started to drift off we would get the giggles again thinking about the awfulness of it all and the sorry sight of my lovely friend Ruth standing in her knickers in a lay-by because her jeans were sodden.
I worry at times that people must think I make it all up. This is why I tried to take a picture of the car and Ruth-in-pants but strangely, everyone objected.