At Ricky's

"ALISTAIR DARLING doesn't like me," complains Ricky. "He's definitely unhappy with me."

I cluck sympathetically.

We're out at Ricky's restaurant for our last-Monday-of-the-month dinner, which turns out to be excellent as usual.

I indulge in a spicy sweet-and-sour soup starter and then plonk for the roast pork and duck Cantonese style with Singapore vermicelli (very thin pasta strands mixed with prawn, ham, onion, green pepper and so on).

All cooked to perfection and served with efficiency and good humour.

One of the things I really like about this place is that Ricky always talks about "the team", with all the staff pulling together - the sure sign of a happy ship.

Anyhow, we're tucking into our meals when my technique with chopsticks is commented on - not long ago I was rank amateur with these things; now, after some practice at home on my own, I'm quite a dab hand.

I was actually shamed into using chopsticks in a Japanese restaurant in Sydney. I asked the waiter for a fork and he visibly stiffened at the idea. He informed me that, while of course I could have a fork, it was only respectful to Asian food to eat it in the Asian way - with sticks.

I pointed out that I was unfamiliar with the use of sticks and being of a somewhat cack-handed disposition I feared I might not be able to actually get the food into my mouth with them.

He had an answer for that, though. He put a wedge of paper between the two sticks, then wrapped a rubber band around the ends, turning the sticks in effect into long wooden tweezers.

He pointed out that this was the way children in Japan learned to use them and I'm pretty certain I heard some snickering in the background as tried to pick up rice grains with less than dexterous proficiency.

Nevertheless, I persevered.

I was still using the rubber band method when we first came to Ricky's, and here too I received some amused glances from the staff.

But it was at Ricky's that the secret of using chopsticks dawned on me - bring the bowl right up to your mouth, in the Oriental way, and just scoop the food out.

Success!

One of the waiters at Ricky's told me with approval that now I would no longer need the rubber bands. He was right.

Of course I still use a fork at home, but I can now show due respect to Chinese food by eating it in the Chinese way.

Runaround

BELIEVE IT OR NOT, it's easier to book a holiday on the far side of the world than to book tickets to a West End show in London.

The problem is that we can't just book it unless we know we have wheelchair access for My Good Lady.

The show in question is Les Misérables - one of greatest musicals of all time. It's been running for over twenty years in London; it's appeared, I believe, in 26 countries and in 15 or 16 languages to packed houses around the world.

Everyone I know who has seen it confirms it as "stunning", "brilliant" and "amazing".

Anyway, it's my sixtieth birthday this year, and I've never been to a real West End production. Les Miz is my choice - should hardly be a problem to get tickets you would think.

Oh dear, oh dear...

We look up the Queen's Theatre for tickets only to discover that we have to go through another website - a central ticket agency called Theatreland.

Unfortunately, they cannot say if the Queen's is wheelchair accessible (we believe it is) and in any case they are unable to help us in this matter. Contact the theatre direct, they tell us, and here is their number...

Except we find that the number has been discontinued.

My Good Lady and I discuss the matter and decide that maybe the best bet would be to book through a local travel agency - one of those special weekend theatre deals they are always advertising in the papers.

So we go along. Unfortunately, we are told, they cannot assist us, either for the tickets, or the hotel, or the train. A rather ditsy girl at the shop gives us the name of Theatreland and the number of the Queen's Theatre - the discontinued one - and tells us that we shall have to sort it all out ourselves.

By this time we are beginning to wonder if the effort is worth it.

We check on the train connection - and yes, encouraging news, there should be no problem actually getting to London.

Heartened, we go back to do some web surfing and find another telephone number for the Queen's Theatre.

This, however, turns out to be another central agency, and they give us yet another number - this time for direct access at the Queen's box office.

The access department proves to be closed until Monday...

I swear, we didn't have such a runaround in booking our holiday in Australia!

We plan to give it one more try, but if this nonsense goes on much longer we're just going to abandon the whole idea.

And I was so looking forward to seeing Les Miz as my birthday treat.

Goodies galore

WE DRIVE OUT to Glasson Dock today, out in the flat, windy, marshy area which constitutes part of the Port of Lancaster, and where the River Lune meets the sea.

It's actually not all that grand.

Hard to believe, in fact, that this was once a busier maritime district than Liverpool and second only to London.

Still, we're here for the Smokehouse shop, a wonderful establishment full of exciting goodies that have been preserved in the adjacent smokery.

The pleasure I used to feel in sweetshops in the days when I was nowt but a nipper, is now the feeling I get coming here.

And the range of foods here always makes me want to spend more than I can reasonably justify - from kippers and Lune wild salmon and sea trout to locally sourced hams and cheese and game - the range of foods positively smile up at you from behind the glass of their display cases.

We're here for the game, for a brace of pheasant and some smoked salmon. We're not disappointed with our purchases, either - we return home with the warm feeling of a job well done and a trip worthwhile.

Actually I need salmon for my experimental cook this evening: a farfalle (bow pasta) dish with creamy sauce which turns out very simple to make and luxuriously tasty to eat.

It's My Good Lady's contention that the reason why we don't dine out more is because we have such a wonderfully varied diet at home, and I'm sure she's got a point.

I'm certainly looking forward to our mid-week roast pheasant tomorrow...

Dicky

"HAVE YOU EVER been to Rome?" asks Dicky Gobble one day last week, and when I respond in the negative, he goes on, "Oh, don't go! It's terrible. Everything is falling down. It's full of ruins!"

And so deadpan is his expression that it takes me a moment to realise that this is a classic example of his sense of humour.

The more I think about it, the funnier it becomes.

It's like the time Dicky was told that Gaz, the Pub's manager, and his girlfriend had gone to London for the weekend, and he asked ever so innocently, "What's he doing - with a girl in London?"

Dicky - just one of the characters you can encounter at the Pub...

Repaired - and broken again.

WE GET A CALL this morning from the local computer shop: our laptop has been repaired - and, we're told, it won't cost the earth.

One of us - I'm too much the gentleman to say who - dropped the computer and damaged the DVD drawer; anyhow, it's been straightened. Great stuff, I can't tell you how much I've miss the laptop while it's been in dock.

We get it home this evening and after dinner we try to fire it up.

Nothing.

I can't believe it! Somehow, between leaving the shop and getting it home it seems to have got damaged again.

And this time, I fear it may be really serious; the power light comes on, but the computer remains dead.

Dead... Caput... Defunct... Unproductive...

I don't know why it is, but somehow an unresponsive computer is one of the most uselessly frustrating objects in all creation.

A car that won't start is only second on the list - on my list anyway.

I also seem to have been going through a phase in which I've suffered a number of domestic and personal setbacks of one sort or another.

The laptop is just the cherry on the cake.

Anyhow, tomorrow, it's back to the computer shop for further repair.

Drat it!

Doin' the mashed potato

I SUPPOSE I OUGHT to be suspicious when the recipe states that I braise the wood pigeon for 1½ hours.

Most game is remarkably fat-free; it doesn't take to being slow cooked like this - it tends to get rather tough and dry.

As indeed is the case, here. Oh, flavoursome enough, yes, but distinctly overdone. Still, the gravy is nice - rich and thick and tasty.

But I have to report my experimental cook this week isn't my most successful of efforts.

The thing that bugs me, though, even more than the pigeon, is the mashed potatoes - at which I'm usually something of an expert. But each time I've tried to do them recently, no matter how much welly I've given the spuds with the hand masher, they've ended up lumpy.

Wrong variety of spud I suspect.

Actually, we're discussing mashed potato in the Geriatrics' Corner of the Pub.

We're joined by Rob, the chef, who has his own views about how mash should be done. "You boil the potatoes in their skins," he says. "And you peel them while they're hot."

He adds that he's been reading a cook-book by his mate, Heston Blumenthal, and according to Heston you peel the spuds first, chop them into 1 cm cubes, boil them, and then you boil up the peelings - and add the water from the skins to the mash.

At least this sounds a bit less painful a method than peeling spuds while they're still hot, but even so...

It's My Good Lady who suggests yet another method. "Cook them as jacket potatoes," she says. "Then just scrape them out of their skins."

I may try this...

They'll still end up lumpy, I suspect; simply the wrong variety of spud (i.e. cheap ones).