Greater expectations

Last Friday night, I ended up at Singapora restaurant in Rochester High Street as a work colleague’s birthday was celebrated.  It was packed more tightly than a T-34 tank – given that its primary function is as a culinary outlet, a small strip alongside the bar area was not really conducive to nightclubbing, especially as it was pouring down with rain, so rendering a large section of the backyard unavailable.

It was quite a contrast when I greeted a friend in Rochester a few weeks ago and, after a refreshing pint, took him to Singapora to sate his hunger with something more satisfying than a nutri-grain bar.  It seemed that bar the bar staff (one of whom vocally demonstrated her CAMRA membership) we were alone – usually a bad sign for such an establishment, but first of all this was Rochester and not London.  Most importantly, this was Thursday night.

My friend, Alexander Goff had literally (not a word I use lightly) trekked from Westminster Abbey to Rochester Cathedral over the previous two days and come the morning would journey along the South Downs trail.  At Rochester train station he would link up with a few less hardy souls who would accompany him to Canterbury.  It wasn’t for charity (I don’t blame him – having watched the very popular Simon Savory struggle to accrue £2,000 for his London Marathon cause, fundraising can be a very stressful and exhausting business), rather something that Al wished to prove to himself. I guess as my peers hit 30 and beyond and look for new ways to experience life, without the comfort of children, it can be a little unnerving.  Maybe not quite a ‘quarter-life’ crisis, but certainly a time for re-evaluation.  I fancy that such a sojourn would be appealing to me, just as the Thames Walk (recently voted second best walking path in the world by Lonely Planet) would be, ahem, up my avenue.  Yet caring for a little daughter does put a crimpener on solitary plans.

Al had done the reverse of what Phillip Pirrip did in Great Expectations, in walking from the Medway area to London.  Whereas Pip was emotionally devastated, making the trip in one day, Al was in markedly finer fettle, despite the rain that splattered his second day and his ad hoc sleeping arrangements in Orpington for the first night.  He sent me a text in the early evening of the second day, ahead of our rendevous outside Rochester Cathedral, saying he was having a pint in Gillingham.  This rather threw me, thinking that to not re-cross the Medway, he must be taking a very southerly route – turns out it was Gravesend, but along with Gillingham, it was a place he would have passed through without tarrying in the past, hence the confusion.

I remember after arriving in Rochester and taking him to the nearby King’s Head pub, he swiftly proceeded to remove his damp hiking boots in exchange for flip-flops.  As I purchased drinks for us (where I was recognised by a barlady as a worker at The Telegraph Contact Centre through my friend Chris Foxwright offering her change for the vending machine whilst engaged in a game of pool with me – there is a rudimentary pool table at work), he quickly contacted his girlfriend Annie and then disappeared in the toilets for a while, freshening up.

After a trip to Singapora, I accompanied him to his pre-arranged digs at The Gordon Hotel.  Despite the chipboard reception, quite plush they were too, tapestries lining the stairwell with its oak banisters and an en-suite bathroom slightly bigger than the actual bedroom, with a lovely view of the cathedral’s spire.  After bidding my au revoirs, I got home and received a good night text from him.  Very touching it was as well, even though it was meant for Annie!