Dining with death
One Sunday a few months back, we were off on a family trip to meet up with some friends at a nearby-ish country house. We had arranged to meet them in the early afternoon, so decided to stop on the way to get lunch. We kept an eye out for child-friendly pubs (ours are three and five years old) as we motored along but then our eye was caught by a roadside sign offering roast lunch in a pleasant atmosphere, families welcome. Ideal.

We pulled up into the car park, the place looked nice enough, pleasant view and so on. So in we went.

The people at the desk gave a slightly odd look when we came in and asked for a table for four, but were friendly enough and showed us to a place by the window. Which is when, as we sat ourselves down and looked around, we became aware that we were the youngest people there by at least four decades.

It seemed the restaurant was actually part of an old people's retirement complex. Presumably locals would've been aware of the nature of the place, and I suppose it'd be odd to put up a sign saying "no young people". But it was a very uncomfortable hour, sat there feeling rather self-conscious as this herd (there's no other word for it) of geriatrics gazed over at us like starved cows surveying a field of lush grass.

While most of them smiled, some clearly resented the intrusion of a group of potentially rowdy youngsters into their quiet wait for the numbness of the big sleep. I kept my eyes on my plate and tried to keep the kids from making any sudden loud noises, for fear of causing a series of fatal cardiac arrests.

The kids were oblivious of course but did us proud and behaved impeccably. We got out as soon as we'd finished our meal, scared for a fleeting moment that the woman at the reception desk would tell us as we headed for the door,

"You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave."
( reallywittyname veraciously conspues lexiphanicism on, Tue 8 Jan 2008, 13:16, Reply)