Assorted Potato Related Incidents

I have just spent my Sunday surrounded by small and/or boring people. The two options for the remaining part of my weekend were:

A) Endure my step-father's parents - why I have to be inflicted with his side of the family I don't know

B) Visit my dad and step-mum and look after their two children of ages two and one

I took the later option since I had not seen my father since the previous Thursday. Come to think of it I hadn't seen my half-step-grandparent thingies for about a month. Oh dear. They can continue to live in their tight-knit world of jam and inadequate washing-up skills while I clean up baby-goo and baby-poo on the other side of the county.

I began the 40km trek over to West Kirby via my favourite and most well run mode of transport - the train! Please excuse me while I wipe the sarcasm from the corners of my mouth. Actually, trains are quite decent for traveling very long distances, such as those to London. It seems as soon as Virgin is taken out of the equation, the whole thing falls to pieces. Fortunately, the price burden was reduced due to my student rail card (cost £20 but takes a third off anyrail fair across the country. Except weekdays before 10am for some reason: minimum fair of £8 applies). The 40 minute journey costs just £2.50 return, with the discount.

As I descended the 50 year old escalators to the underground station (no lie, the stations predate even my aging father), a rabble of happy-looking people came bustling up the other escalator in the other direction. Unfortunately, I recognised someone from West Kirby, meaning I had just missed a train. Fortunately, they didn't notice me so I didn't have to talk to them. As I got to the platform, low and behold, the electronic (only new thing in that station) sign system informed me that the next train to West Kirby would be arriving in approximately 28 minutes. Bugger.

I sat down on the maroon plastic seats installed with the original 1960s station decor and opened Philip Pullman's Northern Lights. Presently, a youngish woman, reasonably attractive, sat down next to me and opened a pack of smoky bacon Snack-A-Jacks.

"Want one?" she asked generously.
"No thank you," I answered, "I'm on an undiet."
"Oh," she replied solemnly, "so am I." and she took out a bag of Malteasers.
She then preceded to devour a whole apple, a bacon and cheese sandwich from Boots, a large bottle of Ribena, two scotch eggs and a tic tac.
"Less than 4 calories each," she said holding out the tic tacs to me.
I sighed thankfully, unwilling to repeat my need for putting on weight urgently, and had a green one.

An unusually uneventful train journey later, devoid of crashes, muggings or any other form of in-journey entertainment, I arrived refreshed yet hungry in West Kirby, with only the short one minute walk between me and the two little horrors. Then there's the kids of course.

Our day was to be spent at Gordale Garden Centre and Bathroom World. My step-mother requires a new toothbrush holder. As for the garden centre, who knows. I arrived at Gordale wedged in the back seat between two cocooning EU-regulation safety seats covered in snot and spittle. How that happened when they were actually asleep I'm not quite sure. We had a deplorable jacket potato in the centre cafe. When I ordered one with a baked bean and cheese topping, the bloke behind the counter asked my if I wanted it hot or cold.
"Cold, no wait. I think I'll try it hot this time, thank you."
"No extra charge on that, mind," he said, as if it wasn't already expensive enough already.

Halfway through my warm baked beans I realised that my potato must have imploded with the weight of all the cheese sauce it was sitting in. I discovered a small pebble at the bottom of the dish instead.

After lunch, we inspected the contents of the garden centre, one example of commercial diversification gone mad. I'm sure there were more out-of-date road atlases and dog-related calendars than plants. Then we spotted todays finest attraction. Merwyn Williams was giving a talk on potato growing. Wales' favourite gardener was revealing his tips to the public on how he was won the Annual Welsh Potato Show for the past nine years running. I listened agog as he spilled the spuds on half his life's work. One things for sure though: potatoes and old, balding Welsh men should never have been put in the same potting shed together. Then I went and inspected the junipers.