The curmudgeon

It is all that remains of the saucepans containing two Christmas puds that Westmorland Will and I forgot when we went off to watch the rugby a couple of weeks ago. The puddings themselves, I imagine, are a thin layer of dust coating the gorse on the top of Tup Fell.

As I have already reported, this minor lapse in concentration will cost me an arm, a leg and no doubt some other as yet unspecified organ when we get a replacement in the New Year (there's a long waiting list, you see).

So, in the meantime, Mrs C insisted on more immediate retribution - and we are going out for lunch on Christmas Day for the first time ever.

"You can't expect me to cook turkey and all the trimmings on that thing," she said.

Exactly where we shall sit down to this festive feast, however, took some days and many hours of debate, to decide.

The most expensive bash in the area, you see, is being staged over the tops in Crookedale, where the old Crooked Inn is now a posh eatery run by Londoners for a clientele mostly from snooty Harrogate and the posher bits of Mar'ton.

That was advertised at a mere £75 per head, excluding wine with the meal, although it did boast a glass of Roederer Krystal champagne on arrival. The menu also had a particularly French flavour, starting with goose liver pate and finishing with figs soaked in brandy, 20 different cheeses (all French) and coffee and cognac.

Whereas just down The Lane, the Beggars' Arms was offering traditional English fayre at a mere £45 a head, starting with a fish terrine made from (frozen) smoked River Beggar trout and chestnut soup made from nuts collected from the ancient tree in the Big House grounds.

The main course will be local, too, with a choice of turkey or duck from Owd Tom's Hardrock Farm or - and here's a new one - guinea fowl, reared at Windmill Hill Farm by John Bull's son, the Bullock, in his search for new markets.

No free champagne here, mind you - the Innkeeper has fallen out with what he calls Les Frogs since they started using the EU as their own private piggy bank - but there will be mulled wine or (also new) spiced, hot Ram's Blood Stout with a dash of old navy rum.

Whether or not it was the last item which put Mrs C off I shall never know (she denies it specifically) but she has always been a little partial to a glass of fizz and, I have to admit, rarely gets the chance to indulge.

"But the Beggars' has a good line in sparkling Aussie whites," I protested.

"Cheapskate," she snapped back and so, for a while, it looked as though we were heading over the tops for the big blow out.

I was saved by the telly, of all things. We were watching the news the other night and one of the Government's new anti-drink-driving ads came on. Not a pretty sight, I admit, but as I turned to Mrs C, I saw she was in deep thought.

"There's one thing we haven't sorted out about Christmas Day," she said. "Who's going to drive?"

"Oh, I thought you were, darling," I said. "Or I suppose we could walk if it's a nice day. It's only three miles or so."

The Innkeeper's Lady at the Beggars' was not best pleased at having to squeeze us in at the last minute. The people at the Crook were positively furious when we cancelled.

But this Christmas, we can at least assuage the guilt of stuffing ourselves fatter than any turkey by the thought that we will be eating local produce and putting a few bob into local pockets. Not a bad thought that, for now and the New Year too.

o The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based in a fictitious character in a mythical village.