April 30

Today I was waitressing. My heart sank. On a nice day, the waitress is required to ferry food up and down a slope, which is akin to walking a marathon (carrying heavy plates and often making 3-4 trips to fetch things like mayonnaise).

A couple of rather enchanting elderly ladies came into the bar to order drinks. One of them wore a turban, which both dated and 'classed' her (if one can use that word). I'm not talking about Muslim headgear, I'm talking about those hat/scarf things which remind me of my grandmother's bathing cap, resplendant with a bouquet of flowers. They quickly established they wished to sit outside, as they had their dogs with them (a meaty looking bulldog creature and a small terrier). The landlord, of course, perked up at this news, enquiring with genuine interst about their dogs, and inviting them to be brought inside to mix with the menagerie who actually live in the pub. However, they insisted on an outside table, and settled themselves on the bank, their dogs leads fastened under their chairs.

They were admiring a rather beautiful horse (I hate horses, but even I could see it as beautiful) which the landlord was leading around the car park in a horse whisperish way.

"Is that man the owner?" the terrier lady enquired, pointing not at Richard, but at another man who had led the horse into the carpark.
"Only, I heard him say 'we only got it today', and if he was, he would have said 'I only got it today'."

I admired her deduction skills and also her ability to eavesdrop - a skill I have honed over the years. Working in a pub is a useful place if one is interested in other people's conversations. I promised her I'd find out, and reported back on my next trip (delivering bread and olives and two mussels - this took me three goes).

I left them to it, keeping an eye on them from the kitchen door. It's easy to forget about people who are eating on the bank, although, as it happens, they were the only ones.

On my next trip up, I noticed them both looking down at something with rather agitated mannerisms. There is a steep drop down to the river on the other side of the bank, where a lady had recently fallen (I don't think she noticed much) and had to be rescued in an SAS style affair. As I got closer, it became obvious something was wrong. A dog was barking frantically and it turned out the little terrier had escaped from his lead and run down the slope, and was unable to get back up, because a 'shelf' of sheer earth which led to a slightly less steep path, was too high for him. I was wearing my trusty 'fit flops', which, whilst adding height and improving posture, are remarkably slippery, and my attempts to go down the slope far enough to reach the wretched creature had to be aborted because I was sliding down in an out of control manner.

'He's got a bad heart, and I'm terribly afraid he'll get too distressed.'
I worried it might be her about to have a heart attack.

'Hang on,' I said, 'I'll fetch Dave. He'll be able to help.'

Dave had been peeling potatoes all morning and was quite pleased to leave his post, followed by Mel, who wanted to see what all the fuss was about. We ran up and I removed my shoes. Dave held my hand, Mel held his belt, and I got far enough down the slope to grab the dogs collar and hoik him up, rather unceremoniously.

He seemed none the worse for his adventure, and the turban lady was so grateful I felt a brief flutter of heroism wafting over me. It made up for the fact my leg had been stung by vicious stinging nettles, which seem to be strongest at the start of their season.

Still, it earned us a decent tip and her eternal gratitude.

I can now add 'dog rescuing' to my long list of unofficial job descriptions, which include: taxi driving, counselling, babysitting, dogsitting, clearing up sick and dog shit... you get the idea.

Still, it's good to help and the warm feeling didn't leave me for the rest of my shift.