Saturday night out

... and we were home by 10pm. L and I found ourselves downtown by the river yesterday evening after plans to go over to M's fell through because he was nursing a bad throat that sounded worse by the minute.

We went to a pub that we used to go to, ordered a breakfast fry-up (I can quite happily eat breakfast at any time of the day), a bottle of wine and settled back. And talked about HRH's last poop and Rupert's peeing habits. There we were, on the edge of party central on a Saturday night and we were talking about the dogs' toilet habits. I guess we need to get out more.

I miss my food writer soap box. We hadn't been to this pub in a while and while the manager who remembered us (or L at any rate, he goes more often than I do) was welcoming and reserved us a quiet corner table, the rest of the service left a lot to be desired. We were early enough to order a pint during happy hours, so when happy hours was over, were duly presented with the bill. Only by then, we were halfway through dinner. I understand the need to close the happy hour tab, but they could have come round and ask if the food was OK, and could they get us anything else, and by the way, could we settle the happy hour tab instead of shoving it in our face when our mouths were full of food. And when the waitress came back with the credit card slip for us to sign, she didn't think to even look at the name on the card which is clearly a woman's name, she just shoved it at L. I guess I'm grumpy when I have to sign a bill while still chewing my food.

And just about when the night was getting started for those who really had a Saturday night life -- there was a bunch of guys in tuxedo shirts and bowties waist-up, shorts and sandals waist-down who were obviously warming up before heading to the real party and some party that must be to be dressed so -- we finished the wine and went home, mindful that the dogs needed to go and that there'd probably be a puddle to mop up after Rupert (there was, he'd shredded the pee pad).

We used to go clubbing till dawn. Somewhere along the way, we've become homebodies timing our lives round the dogs' needs. I used to spend my days off staying up late and reading. Now, I look forward to my nights off work so that I can go to bed early. I have no idea how it happened.


Not that I'm complaining. I look at Rupert and Queeni snuggled up on the couch and despite the pee stains on that piece of furniture, I think that snuggling with them is a whole lot nicer than queueing up outside Ministry of Sound. Even on a Saturday night. I'm happy to be a middle-aged homebody dog lady.