The Park Tavern

I heard the town was all-abuzz: a new pub, one fit for middle class
sensibilities; I had to have a look. I visit all the pubs in Eltham
once a year, on Christmas Eve; out of a sense of duty, you understand.
The Park Tavern always got a 'decaying tawdry' mark. Now ladies were
going for lunch (I have to say 'ladies', because, in the pub business,
'ladies' is a technical term, used to distinguish them from 'women',
which is not just a technical term, but also a euphemism).

My first visit was a lunchtime, and, indeed, there was a large table
of ladies who were lunching.  These were clearly having a good time.
"The food's quite good", they said, when I asked them.  It was the
'quite' which impressed me: clearly a considered opinion.  I couldn't
resist asking: "do you come here often?"   Apparently they were all
retired, and it was a regular lunch club: clearly a pub with a
difference.

The Park Tavern had been closed for some months.  The previous tenant,
burdened with who-knows-what, had melted into the night, "done a
runner", as the natives put it.  After months of building work, it
reopened as something completely different.  Steve, the new tenant,
summed up their policy very succinctly: "Antique furniture and
classical music", he said, "and a good kitchen, serving good food."

The Park Tavern runs six real ales, three less usual lagers (including
Leffe), and a scrumpy cider (or 'cloudy cider' as those marketing
people, ever determined to confuse the cognoscenti, have renamed it).
The beers were all in tip-top condition, as was the scrumpy; I can't
speak for the lagers, I don't drink 'filthy foreign muck' (sorry –
cold/bottom-fermented beer).  Actually, I did drink Leffe once, in
France, and the trauma remains with me to this day.  The ales change
regularly, I'm told, always well-known breweries.  The drinkers at the
bar discussed the qualities of their favourites.  They agreed with me
about their condition.

I can't personally comment on the food, I didn't partake.  But those
who did spoke highly of it.  The ladies lunch club did have one moan:
they thought it took too long to serve.  Now that I know about: "don't
order in eights and tens", I said, "this isn't the Savoy.  There will
be one person in the kitchen and no holding area.  You can all eat
together, or eat when it's hot."  (I like educating women.  Sorry, I
mean 'ladies'.)
       I think the Park Tavern must be unique: someone has re-invented
the saloon bar; and about time too.

Recycling the Recycling Bins

I live in a tower block.  We have a balcony on the landing, where we keep our bins.  It's got netting over it to stop the pigeons from getting in and leaving mountains of you-know-what.  The caretakers cart the rubbish down to the ground once a week. 

We also have big recycling bins out front, which we can fill ourselves.  This council is pretty good at recycling.  Basically, all you have to do is keep the food and the packaging separate.  And make arrangements for the odd thing that isn't food or packaging. 

A few months back, a glossy notice appeared on the door of the landing, reminding us of what could be taken downstairs for recycling.  Probably some enterprising caretaker thinking we could carry more, and he could carry less; and we'd be doing the right thing.  In no time at all, the recycling bins were stuffed; bags started to get piled all round them; what a success!

I wrote to the council, telling them how successful their notices had been, and suggesting they either double the number of bins, or empty them twice as often.  And what was their response?  They locked the bins!  This left only a small slot in the lid, kind of like a giant postbox.  Bags wouldn't go in at all.  Now you might think that hardly matters, but if you live seven floors up, you really need to carry it down by the bagful.

At this point, I met one of my councillors at a 'do', and amused myself by regaling him about this typical council reaction to a problem.  It was a bit unfair, but I enjoyed it, and I expect he's used to a regular regaling from all and sundry.

Meanwhile, the bags continued to mount around the bins.

Then something really unexpected happened: the bins vanished.  And we got a stiff letter from the council upbraiding us for putting the wrong things in the bin.  I felt quite chastened.  Then I noticed they had also been removed from the other tower blocks in the neighbourhood.  And I heard an item on the news about the difficulties councils were experiencing in present economic circumstances getting rid of their recycled waste.

"Ah, well", I thought, " when the going gets tough, the tough pick on tower block residents.  They're used to it, poor souls."  I thought I might as well throw away my kitchen recycling bin, but, since it was made of plastic, there was now nowhere to put it.

As you can imagine, there was now lots more rubbish for the caretakers to cart down from the landings.  The smart alex who put those notices up in the first place must have been wondering how it could all have gone so wrong.

Then, about a week later, I got a glossy mailing from the council, extolling the virtues of recycling in glorious Technicolor; I got my very own copy of the poster explaining what can be put in the recycling bins (which, by-the-way, was still up on the landing); it even had a map of the council recycling centre, which is in another part of the galaxy; and a rather offensive attempt to persuade me to use real nappies.  Like Victor Meldrew, I don't-believed it. 

But there's more:  a few days later, the bins had reappeared.  You couldn't make it up, could you?  At least it's a good job I kept my kitchen bin: I can put all that council correspondence in it; including the bit about needing more bins.