Ferry crossing from Plymouth would be mid afternoon so we decided to
complete last-minute arrangements and shopping prior to leaving. We
went into the city centre and while seeking out a car park we somehow
managed to drive into the main pedestrian concourse; a gesture which
was not well received by the hoards of Saturday shoppers attempting to
dodge Gavin's car. Fortunately, I spotted a car park round the back of
Boots, unfortunately it was a private car park. However, the situation
was resolved when I bribed the car park attendant with an appropriate
cash incentive. The Eichmann principle of, "I voss only obeying zee
orderz", thankfully does not apply to all individuals sporting SS-style
uniforms and we were graciously permitted to park the Toyota Supra in
the very heart of Plymouth's city centre for as long as we wanted.
However, greasing that particular palm set the holiday coffers back a
fiver. Nonetheless, the opportunity to shop in Plymouth did enable me
to buy the ingenious electronic currency converter called Changer Two
(£7.99 at most good retailers). Worn prominently around the neck, the
pendant was to prove a reverse talisman during the holiday and the butt
of many jokes.
Rendezvoused with Nige and family at ferry embarkation point. They had
been waiting for nearly an hour and Henri eagerly informed me of how
wildly Nigel had driven from Somerset: "we were weaving in and out of
cars!" he exclaimed.
After queuing for an age we were eventually let on the ferry, Brittany
Ferries' flagship Quiberon. Once ensconced in the lounge I made
directly for the bar and joined yet another queue. With only one barman
serving the massed throng I stood suffering a parched palate for about
30 minutes and was consequently denied the chance of watching the
coastline of Great Britain disappear on the horizon. Had my patience
been rewarded I should not have minded. On being approached by the
barman, casually I requested: "Give us a pint of Bodduz please mate".
Which was met with pure bewilderment - surely everyone knows what
Bodduz is, yet it transpired that this particular barman (Pierre) was
French and was, alas, unfamiliar with the colloquial call for the cream
of Manchester. When I had successfully communicated my order, Pierre
served up an ice-cold glass of "beer" certainly not worthy of
Boddingtons It was completely flat, had no head whatsoever and was half
an inch short of the brim. I promptly asked Pierre if it was an
oversized glass. He was completely perplexed by my question. I then
suggested that it was not a pint measure. He looked offended and
insisted it was, making claims of 560 millilitres etc. Unwilling to
make a scene and obviously, wishing to be an ambassador for my country,
I conceded dignified in defeat and handed over my money but then began
mentally to compose my letter of complaint to Brittany Ferries.