Sunday Roast

It's no secret that Stevie loves his roast dinner on a Sunday, loves it so much that in deed he cooks it himself cos I am a cheese on toast kinda girl on Sundays. And just because we are on holidays I see no reason to change the habits of a lifetime.

He remembered the name a of a pub in Teddington where he had been to for some famous roast last time he was here, so I said it wasn't too far and that we should walk. Winter is coming but at the moment the temps are still warm enough for shirt sleeves and yesterday there was no rain, so we made hay while the sun shone. I remembered walking to Teddington when we lived on the other side of Twickenham years ago, but as time would have it, the distance seemed to have stretched like worn elastic. It was quite a hike, but good for those of us who had spent 3 days pickled.

The Builders Arms is a pub tucked away in a side street and it was heaving, just lucky that we had booked.

Orange lemonade and a diet coke and an order of roast beef with a side of cheesey cauliflower. I had done a bit of a reccie and it looked bloody fine.

The pub is pretty small and traditional. There is a wee garden out the back and as it was crowded inside we considered sitting out there, but then I spotted the ashtrays and asked if this was the smokers spot. She said that everyone just popped out the front door onto the street with their drinks if they wanted a fag and that no-one smoked out there, but I reckoned where there is an ashtray there is bound to be someone puffing away so we trooped back inside, to a table near the door and watched the parade of smokers move out the door and onto the street.

It's an odd arrangement that would just not be allowed in Oz. Firstly they take their drinks with 'em and there are a few tables and chairs set up outside to perch their drinks on. No-one seems to sit down, but it is a very jolly little area, except of course if you are a local and trying to walk home. Then I reckon walking through the cloud would not be too pleasant.

I noticed that the streets were really crowded with cars. There just wasn't room to park another bobby pin anywhere. When the pub's governor pulled up he inched closer and closer to the blue car in front until he nudged it forward enough to make a little space for himself. Again I reckon this sort of nudge it parking would be frowned on in Oz. It seems to me that there are just more people and therefore more cars in the suburbs now, perhaps as a result of converting homes to little flats and cramming more folk in. The price of real-estate is huge and I am very pleased NOT to be finding rent here anymore. A 1 bed 1 bath goes for about 1200 pounds a month, where as when I was renting it was about 1000 quid a month for a whole house! Yeh I know it was years ago, but still.

But to the ROAST.

Bloody brilliant! Real gravy! Superb spuds, and those wonderful Yorkshire Puds, which if I was a cook I'd learn to make cos I reckon a plate of 'em with some gravy could be dinner, Cauliflower good enough to almost convert to vegie and Beef so rare and tender I wondered where the rest of the cow was, cos I fancied taking some home for the rest of the week. Perhaps one of the best bits was that there was no pumpkin to be seen, no pumpkin contaminating the rest of the scrumptiousness. There were some carrots for colour and Steve found some leeks and some homemade horse radish.

It was soooo yum, that there was just no room left for pudding, which was a shame, cos that looked pretty fab too.

Home on the bus and a timely purchase of the London Times and into the bath - it was Sunday after all.

Reckon this weekend was the calm before the storm that is bound to be the Rugby World Cup, which starts on Friday.

Pretty sure that Twickers is gonna go a bit mental.