The owners of the plant centre have franchised out the tea room. That is such a massive relief. A total result. Thank you, God. Each time I washed my hands then made tea and served slices of cake, wearing my compost covered shirt and with dirt engrained under every finger nail, I was waiting for the customer to turn out to be an environmental health inspector. Instead the tea room is going to become the responsibility of a young couple currently running one close by, whose lease is expiring. They are going to serve savoury food as well as cake, which will please all those customers who don't like cake, or don't feel like it as a substitute for lunch. There will be a smiling face all the time behind the tea room counter, ready to dish out refreshments when the mood for cake strikes. At the moment, standing behind the plant centre till, you can see customers warm to the idea of cake, look around trying to work out who is supposed to serve it, remember that cake is fattening and that if they wait for a cup of coffee until they get home they could save £3.50 a head, and give up on the idea. Altogether putting the tea room under the full-time charge of people who understand catering and aren't trying to multi-task in the plant centre is an excellent idea.
It's a shame about the sparky girl, who will not be staying on, but since she has not merely already found another job, but already started it, she should be OK. Working for us at weekends was never a career anyway, more of a post-college CV filler and modest earner. She was nice to have around, and we'll miss her. Even while holding down two jobs she found the time to make a farewell box of cupcakes for the staff room. I predict a bright future for her, and wouldn't be at all surprised if in five or six years she suddenly bobbed up as the new face of UK television cookery, or something.
I left work early, by prior arrangement, to get ready to go to an At Home. It was the first time we had ever been invited to one, though I have seen cards for them on the owner's desk. I think they belong to a slightly more Upper section of the middle classes than the bit we belong to. The Systems Administrator and I don't give At Homes, nor have I ever possessed a set of postcards with my name and address printed across the top. Entertainments at our house are either coffee, lunch, tea, or supper, and when I send postcards they are from art galleries, or the Penguin one hundred book covers boxed set.
We decided that At Home from 6.00pm translated as drinks and nibbles, and so it did. Our host was one of the music society committee members, and there were lots of faces there that I recognised from the concerts, and lots more I recognised from the plant centre, and many I knew from both. The boss's parents were there, and the woman who works in the office, and a former colleague from the plant centre who lives next door. Our hosts occupy the house once owned by Randolph Churchill (son not father), which is a fine building in itself, and has one of the best views in Suffolk, straight up the vale to Dedham church, which providence has kindly placed exactly the right amount off centre, not in the middle of the view.
Neither of us are very good at small talk, and it was more difficult for the SA, who didn't recognise so many faces, but we made a creditable shot at mingling. Generally, with groups of people you don't know well, you don't have to see them many times before you start feeling you know each other well enough to sustain a ten minute conversation without it feeling like an effort. We lasted two hours, by which time the At Home was starting to wind down. Back at our home we had to change straight out of our party clothes, before they could get covered in cat hair.
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