Week 7 - Greg + Ben J

Ben and I met at West Didsbury tram stop and then travelled to Chorlton on the Metrolink. We grabbed a drink in Mary & Archie before heading to The Oystercatcher.

Ben is one of my group of Didsbury friends and married to Jordan (see next week’s Greg Plus One) and now seems as good a time as any to explain how I ended up in Didsbury. Apart from a brief stint in the United States, I spent most of my childhood on the South coast of the UK near Southampton. I decided to study Avionics Engineering at university, which somewhat limited my choice of institution as there were only six universities in the UK that offered the course at the time. My first choice was Bristol (which is incidentally where Ben went to university to study medicine), but I missed a place there by two UCAS points, so I headed to Queen Mary & Westfield (now known as Queen Mary, University of London) in London’s East End, an area I remained relatively faithful to for the next 25 years. I absolutely loved living in London and honestly thought I would never leave. Whenever others did, I would roll my eyes and assume they had lost their mind (or worse, become old and boringly-practical). A couple of years ago I was invited on a ski trip by Tom A-C (see Week 5). I really only knew Tom and his husband Ben (see Week 3), but decided it would be fun to tag along. Most of the others on the trip lived in Didsbury, a place I’ve visited a few times over the years to see Tom and Ben and had really liked while I was there. Someone suggested I move there and I thought “Why not?”. Not long after my return to the UK, I put my house in Forest Gate on the market and headed north. There were a number of reasons I chose to move to South Manchester: I loved London, but fancied a change; I wanted to be closer to my family, most of whom now live on the Wirral; and I’d never really had a set of gay friends before. I did of course have gay friends, but we tended to hang out one on one, rather than heading out together as a group. People often ask whether I’m pleased I’ve made the move. I am, but I’m also not someone who tends to dwell on past decisions. What’s done is done. Suburban South Manchester is of course very different to East London and there are pros and cons to both places. There are things I miss about London, mostly my friends, and things I prefer about Didsbury, the lack of litter, but on reflection think it was the right choice.

Ben and I discussed our plans for the next couple of weeks and ended up on the subject of shared calendars. Most couples I know have some form of shared calendar. My sister and her wife have a paper calendar on the wall of their kitchen that they scribble their plans onto. Others tend to opt for something a little more 21st century like a shared Google calendar which both parties can update. Ben and I have some mutual friends, Gary and Sam, who have opted for a more hybrid approach. They have eschewed purpose-built calendar applications and decided to hark back to a simpler time, opting for a shared Microsoft Word document which each of them edits to add or remove events. This approach is ingenious in its combination of the worst elements of electronic and analogue technologies. It works for them though, so who am I to question its validity. This did however remind me of my friend Julie who once secured a temporary position via Office Angels as a secretary. The person she was covering for was out of the office for a couple of weeks, presumably on holiday. Julie was tasked with managing the office appointments diary in her absence. The diary was a physical ledger which sat on her desk and would be revised by hand every time a new meeting was required, or an existing one had to be rescheduled. In order to ensure everyone in the office knew their engagements for the week, Julie would summarise them via email each morning and each member of staff would dutifully transcribe them into their own paper diary. This lunacy would perhaps have made sense in the 1980s, but this was 2005 (or thereabouts). The second Julie’s supervisor had set off for the Algarve, she buttonholed the MD and directed him to the calendar in Microsoft Outlook, the same application he was already using to read his emails (or perhaps they were printed out for him, much like Jacob Rees-Mogg’s apparently are). There, hidden in plain sight, were the means by which he could schedule meetings with the click of a mouse. The MD was astonished and embraced this new (existing) technology at once. The PA, on her return from Faro, was less enthusiastic.

Ben works as an anaesthetist for the NHS, an organisation that seemingly employs 90% of my current friendship circle. Anyone who’s ever spent any time in a company of doctors knows that they love to talk shop. This is and of itself can prove both completely compelling and utterly tiresome, but it’s when the internal machinations of the NHS are added into the mix that things take on a new lustre. I firmly believe small organisations tend to be run much better than larger ones and in this respect the NHS is no exception. There are of course things it does really well, but I never cease to be amazed regarding the basics that it appears to get so wrong. For instance, most hospitals don’t have an electronic system for managing staff rotas, it is all done on spreadsheets, often by a consultant (who could presumably be put to better use elsewhere). Budgets are normally held in such a way that it’s easier to pay for a pricey locum than to give a resident more money to cover the same shift at a much lower cost. Resources are constantly underutilised because one department doesn’t talk to another, or because the night shift aren’t compelled to make the day shift’s life any easier (and vice versa). I don’t work for the NHS, or the King’s Fund, or anyone else who professes to understand these things, so my thoughts are very much based on hearsay and should be taken with a pinch of salt, but it strikes me that when you run a massive organisation you are forced to focus on the macro and consequently never address the small changes that would make everyone’s lives easier on a daily basis; a slicker IT system, building collaborative rather than competitive targets, adding in flexibility so resource can redeployed elsewhere when things don’t go to plan.

When we arrived a Oystercatcher, I asked if I could sit facing the door as I’m prone to do when dining out. I’m not one for peculiar affectations, but I’ll confess to this one. For some reason, facing doorwards makes me feel a little more comfortable, perhaps so I have forewarning of an ambush should one occur - those few seconds can be vital when manoeuvring one’s dinner companion to use as a human shield (sorry Ben). We ordered oysters to start and shared a Turbot for our main with a side of fennel gratin and another of sprouting broccoli. The food came relatively quickly, but not blisteringly fast, which is one of my pet peeves. I occasionally travel alone and have discovered to my peril that fast service can often be conflated with good service, particularly in the USA. I once ate a starter main and desert in a restaurant in Key West in less than 30 minutes. This wasn’t my intention, but the result of each course being delivered seconds after the previous one had been finished. This is of course sold as diligent and professional service, when it is in fact just a way of turning tables more quickly. Not allowing bookings is another mechanism employed to the same ends. I get it, businesses have to make money, but I don’t have to like it. Now when I dine out by myself in the US I order one course at a time. This puts me in control of the schedule, but I fear means I’m in less control of what’s been added to my food by an angry member of staff.

Ben and I discussed the delights of getting older. He is of course decades younger than me so has little to worry about, but we’re both approaching an age where it’s likely that a friend will avail themselves of the torch on their phone to assist in reading the menu. I guess it’s when you leave it permanently switched on that you really have to worry. I now find myself fitted with a pair of varifocals after a recent trip to the opticians. My sister insists I don’t need them, not because I’m so young. but more because of my proclivity to spend money on unnecessary embellishments. She’s probably right, as usual, but I have them now so have vowed to do my best to get on with them. For anyone unfamiliar, varifocal glasses have graded lenses so you only need one pair for both long and near sight. This of course means you should be able to see everything perfectly at all times, but in reality means you can’t see anything clearly for several weeks. The key is to always wear the things so your brain can finally give in to the insanity of the situation. I of course have done no such thing, but have reconciled myself to the fact that I won’t be able to see anything properly until I buy my next pair of glasses. It really is a win-win (for the optician at least).

Ben had a confession and one I couldn’t have been more pleased to hear. He is a pescatarian and has been since he was a child. He doesn’t have any objection to eating meat for moral reasons, just doesn’t like the texture. My housemate, David, is a vegetarian, as are a couple of our friends and a small group of them had arranged to go to local vegetarian restaurant which only seats eight people per sitting. Needless to say reserving a table is something of a challenge, with tables released on the first of each month for the month that falls four months into the future. David dutifully got up at 8am on new year’s day to book at table for the veggie contingent, one of whom was Ben. Ben had eagerly accepted the invitation but had neglected to consult with his husband Jordan who it turns out is running the Manchester marathon that day and wasn’t too thrilled at the prospect of a ready meal on his lonesome while Ben treated himself to a twelve-course tasting menu. I am nothing if not magnanimous and agreed to take Ben’s place.

The micro-restaurant nature of the venue reminded me of supper clubs which were de rigueur in London in the 2010s, but seem to have all but disappeared now. They would always be in someone’s house and BYOB (to circumvent licensing laws) and (if my memory serves me correctly) you would pay a suggested contribution rather than formally being charged for the meal (presumably to circumvent some other law). It was frowned upon to turn up with a large group of friends as the idea is that you would meet / interact with people you didn’t know. I went to a few and they were alway really good fun. They were (relatively) cheap, the food was usually pretty good, you got to meet new people and, most importantly, you got to snoop around someone else’s house. If you ever get a chance to go to one (they will no doubt make a come back at some point) then I would recommend it - feel free to invite me along too.

Ben and I grew up in approximately the same part of the UK and spoke a little about Romsey, a small town near Southampton and next to North Baddesley where I lived. Romsey is rather lovely, but I always derided it as a child, presumably because it was all too familiar and because there wasn’t a great deal going on there that would interest an adolescent, apart from Romsey Rapids, an indoor leisure park, which I had assumed had long since closed but appears to still be going strong. My eldest brother still lives in North Baddesley and mentioned to me once that he had recently been to a restaurant in Romsey that had previously been a veterinary practice. Apparently the food was fine, but he was made slightly uneasy by the fact that they had decided not to replace the carpet when they converted the building’s use.

Ben asked me how Greg Plus One had gone to date and I said pretty well and that the calibre of food had been almost as good as the company. In fact, if anything the food had been too good. The Plus One gets to choose the venue and generally chooses somewhere they really like, which tends to mean somewhere quite fancy. This is of course a nice treat for all concerned, but is somewhat hammering my bank balance as even I am not usually profligate enough to go out for an expensive meal at least once a week.

I nipped to the loo about halfway through the meal and noted that the restaurant had availed themselves of a Saniflow. If you’re not familiar with the concept then lucky you - Saniflow are a brand of sanitary macerator, a contraption whose job it is to ensure what would usually be flushed down a 110mm waste pipe can instead be squeezed down a 40mm equivalent. Of course such devices are necessary, but it must be really depressing to work for a company that manufacturers compromise products, whether that be sanitary macerators, instant water heaters or, the bane of my childhood and B&Bs across the land, the electric shower, the perfect way of letting any poor soul who uses it know that you couldn’t be bothered to do the job properly.

Back to the fish. Ben is something of an expert when it comes to dissection, perhaps it’s watching all those surgeons operate, so I (mostly) let him do the honours. If you haven’t ever tried turbot, then you should, it’s delicious and, crucially, doesn’t have too many fiddly bones that are liable to get stuck in one’s throat. There’s always one member of any group who seems to get their unfair share of fish bones, growing up this was always my brother Stephen, I’m can’t recall seeing him eat much fish since. Ben and I veered onto the subject of tracheotomies (no doubt due to the fish-bone-throat-lodging potential) but I noted that he said “tracheostomy” and dared to correct him, a brave move when you’re conversing with a doctor. He explained that the tracheotomy is the cut itself and the tracheostomy is the opening (and followed up in writing for clarity).

We rounded off the meal with an affogato each. Ben was playing it a bit fast and loose at this point as he is allergic to pretty much every substance know to man, including one that may or may not have been lurking in the liqueur that we merrily drowned our ice cream in. I’m pleased to say that he didn’t slip into anaphylaxis on the way home, so the offending constituent can’t have been present on this occasion.

Another lovely meal with pleasant company. Thank you Ben!