A Gallic Treat?

My husband has a favourite restaurant, which is set in the beautiful hill area of Clent in the rolling green Worcestershire countryside, some ten miles from our home. The building also has some en-suite rooms, which are always in great demand. The cuisine is also excellent; the theme of the restaurant is French. All around, the intimate rooms that make up the ground floor are various interesting Gallic artefacts.

The prices are, as you would expect, a little higher than normal for the area, but it is, nevertheless, a favourite haunt of many people who come from far and near to sample its culinary delights.

I have a problem with the place. Not with the food –they’ve started marking up certain dishes as “GF” (Gluten Free) and these are remarkably tasty, my favourites are the boar sausages on a bed of mustard mash, and the venison– nor with the bar, which is cosy with an intimate atmosphere and is full of strategically placed leather armchairs and settees, which all have arms and are easy to manoeuvre oneself in and out.

No. The difficulty is with the toilets. On the ground floor is the “gents” –right by the back entrance, which is the one used most often and which is near the car park. However, the  “ladies” is on the first floor, and only accessed by means of a rather fetching curved staircase. There are some stools scattered around within the well of the stairs, all of which seem to be occupied by young men who totally ignore me as I grasp the ornate wooden bannister on one side of the steps and, grim-faced, set about climbing the north face of the Eiger. The steps, being mainly on the curve, are narrow at the point where I am f forced to climb, and I am aware that I’m one slip away from falling disaster as I inch my perilous way upwards, step by agonising step.

It’s still fresh in my memory: we were there last night to celebrate my husband’s birthday with most of the family, a merry party. At one point, as I paused to catch my breath, I heard a comforting voice behind me: “It’s ok Ruth, you’ll have a soft landing if you fall” and there, following me, was my daughter-in-law. If this were fiction, some gallant, tall, handsome blue-eyed man would immediately have sprung to my assistance –oh yes, that’s right, my gallant, tall, handsome blue-eyed husband is still in the dining room downstairs, sipping beer and exchanging jokes with his sons.

I struggle up, manage to complete my “toilette” and struggle down again. What’s French for: “Why can’t you convert the gents into a facility for the disabled and make my life easier?”

Ruth Wood is a regular contributor for SRNA blog. Based in the UK, Ruth was diagnosed with TM in 2006. She now shares her personal stories with SRNA community.