And a weekend away.
Jul. 30th, 2003 10:57 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
davywavyThis last weekend comprised of ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
puddingcat and I decamping to Brighton for the weekend. Sadly there weren't any rooms going at the Grand Hotel so we had to make do with second best at the Thistle, which is one of those special four-star hotels where they don't wash your sheets or give you complimentary chocolates, presumably because they're in a busy tourist town, they're going to sell out all their rooms anyway, so if you don't like it then tough. It's odd how tastes change; ten years ago I would have thought it unutterably luxurious, three years ago I thought it a nice hotel, and now I find myself wandering forlornly about the room looking for the spa bath and free goodies.
After an evening spent in the hotel bar on Friday (where the girl serving displayed an admirable ability to ask me for more than £10 for two drinks without so much as blinking), Saturday was a day devoted to shopping, or, more specifically, it was devoted to me trudging after my wench for five solid hours in the rain whilst she looked in every shoe shop in town for a pair of sandals before returning to the first shop we visited and buying the first pair she tried on.
Five Hours. In the Rain.
It's a good thing I'm not a bitter person.
The evening comprised of a culinary experiment as we tried Sushi for the first time (I know, I'm just so provincial) and made the interesting twin discoveries that 1) Sushi is very bland, like Dim Sum without the flavour, and 2) Wasabi isn't. After that it was ho for the pub; first the Cricketers, a rather naff town centre meat market, and then to the Smugglers, which had an ambience like the old Banshee in Manchester for those of you who remember it; red and black walls, fair music, and fair drink. I quite liked it until the atmosphere went sour as a fight started at the next pool table (to where Jenny & I were playing our usual game of 'hit & hope'): I've never seen anyone belted with a pool cue before and so it's something I can chalk up to experience, but if I ever see it again I'd rather it was at a greater distance.
By Sunday the rain had blown over leaving a sunnier, much more pleaasant day. We strolled up the pier and ate chips & candyfloss and played the mahcines, although Jenny standing by me with an air of studied tolerance ("Tsk! Boys!") whilst I shot stuff in the arcades really put me off my stroke and the martains killed more of me than I of them. After briefly playing on the "Who wants to be a Millionnaire" quiz machine (a game curtailed when Jenny hit "Female brain" as the answer to the question: "Which is the smallest human organ?"; an answer which really said something to me) we went off the the Aquarium, which was great.
Brighton aquarium doesn't really stand out in the world of Aquaria. Not as impressive as Boston, perhaps, and more expensive than Blackpool, but the great advantage that it had was selling pots of dead little fish that you could feed to some of the exhibits.
This was worth the price of admission in itself.
The fish selling stand was right by the shark tank, and so most people were just feeding the sharks (meaning that she sharks were completely blase about the food raining down about them and ignored it most of the time). However, asking an attendent meant that the wench and I discovered the Sea Bass tank was also for feeding, and the Sea Bass were much more enthusiastic about food.
I hadn't realised just how big and aggressive your average Sea Bass is: about as long as my arm and twice as fat, a shoal of them scrabbling to scoff scraps of food toss to them is quite a sight - even jumping to snatch food from your hand if you held it over the water. In many ways feeding them reminded me of going to dinner with my ex-girlfriend - if you held out food in their general direction there would be a sudden wet plopping noise and the food would vanish, possibly taking a chunk of your finger with it.
And so we passed a pleasant half hour giggling like japanese schoolgirls (but not dressed like them) as the Bass swarmed and fought in the water before us.
And so the weekend ended with us slightly damp and smelling of fish, whcih I'm led to believe is the way most weekends in Brighton finish - if not for quite the same reason.
puddingcat and I decamping to Brighton for the weekend. Sadly there weren't any rooms going at the Grand Hotel so we had to make do with second best at the Thistle, which is one of those special four-star hotels where they don't wash your sheets or give you complimentary chocolates, presumably because they're in a busy tourist town, they're going to sell out all their rooms anyway, so if you don't like it then tough. It's odd how tastes change; ten years ago I would have thought it unutterably luxurious, three years ago I thought it a nice hotel, and now I find myself wandering forlornly about the room looking for the spa bath and free goodies.After an evening spent in the hotel bar on Friday (where the girl serving displayed an admirable ability to ask me for more than £10 for two drinks without so much as blinking), Saturday was a day devoted to shopping, or, more specifically, it was devoted to me trudging after my wench for five solid hours in the rain whilst she looked in every shoe shop in town for a pair of sandals before returning to the first shop we visited and buying the first pair she tried on.
Five Hours. In the Rain.
It's a good thing I'm not a bitter person.
The evening comprised of a culinary experiment as we tried Sushi for the first time (I know, I'm just so provincial) and made the interesting twin discoveries that 1) Sushi is very bland, like Dim Sum without the flavour, and 2) Wasabi isn't. After that it was ho for the pub; first the Cricketers, a rather naff town centre meat market, and then to the Smugglers, which had an ambience like the old Banshee in Manchester for those of you who remember it; red and black walls, fair music, and fair drink. I quite liked it until the atmosphere went sour as a fight started at the next pool table (to where Jenny & I were playing our usual game of 'hit & hope'): I've never seen anyone belted with a pool cue before and so it's something I can chalk up to experience, but if I ever see it again I'd rather it was at a greater distance.
By Sunday the rain had blown over leaving a sunnier, much more pleaasant day. We strolled up the pier and ate chips & candyfloss and played the mahcines, although Jenny standing by me with an air of studied tolerance ("Tsk! Boys!") whilst I shot stuff in the arcades really put me off my stroke and the martains killed more of me than I of them. After briefly playing on the "Who wants to be a Millionnaire" quiz machine (a game curtailed when Jenny hit "Female brain" as the answer to the question: "Which is the smallest human organ?"; an answer which really said something to me) we went off the the Aquarium, which was great.
Brighton aquarium doesn't really stand out in the world of Aquaria. Not as impressive as Boston, perhaps, and more expensive than Blackpool, but the great advantage that it had was selling pots of dead little fish that you could feed to some of the exhibits.
This was worth the price of admission in itself.
The fish selling stand was right by the shark tank, and so most people were just feeding the sharks (meaning that she sharks were completely blase about the food raining down about them and ignored it most of the time). However, asking an attendent meant that the wench and I discovered the Sea Bass tank was also for feeding, and the Sea Bass were much more enthusiastic about food.
I hadn't realised just how big and aggressive your average Sea Bass is: about as long as my arm and twice as fat, a shoal of them scrabbling to scoff scraps of food toss to them is quite a sight - even jumping to snatch food from your hand if you held it over the water. In many ways feeding them reminded me of going to dinner with my ex-girlfriend - if you held out food in their general direction there would be a sudden wet plopping noise and the food would vanish, possibly taking a chunk of your finger with it.
And so we passed a pleasant half hour giggling like japanese schoolgirls (but not dressed like them) as the Bass swarmed and fought in the water before us.
And so the weekend ended with us slightly damp and smelling of fish, whcih I'm led to believe is the way most weekends in Brighton finish - if not for quite the same reason.
