Tuesday, February 18, 2020

Small pleasures

I've said it before on the blog: there is something mystical and wondrous about a decent margarita. As soon as I've had two sips, I feel happy. It's not the same with any other drink, and my writer friend Chrissie agrees. The trouble is that we have been unable to find one out here in the sticks.

But last week Chrissie emailed excitedly to say she'd been having tapas in a refurbished pub halfway between her village and mine and discovered they now serve cocktails, including margaritas. She hadn't had one because she was driving, but she'd checked the listed ingredients on the cocktail menu and they looked OK. 

'How are we going to get there and back without driving? You know what they're like...and what if we want to have two? We'll be too drunk to drive home,' we chuntered. Those of you who aren't country-dwellers might not know that daytime buses out here are scant, and buses after 6 p.m. are virtually extinct. Luckily Dave and Chrissie's daughter agreed to act as taxis.

We ordered our margaritas and sat down to peruse the food menu, like two kids waiting for our ice cream sundaes to arrive. 

Yes! Not bad! Not bad at all. We might have preferred a tall one with ice, but these were OK. A quarter of the way in we were not feeling that magical uplift, however. Hmmm...why?

Halfway through, a little better, but in the end we gave it 3.5 stars. Nice enough, a small pleasure, but not nice enough to shell out another £7.50 for. When it was time to go home we realised we would probably have been fit enough to drive, which meant there probably was not enough tequila in the mix. The search continues.

But last night I had a lovely dream. I was 15 and being walked home from somewhere by a gorgeous boy with floppy brown hair. He was wheeling his bike, and when we got to my house he leaned it against the wall and we had an excellent snog on the doorstep. 

And this morning I have snowdrops on my breakfast tray: another small pleasure.

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