I have entered another world. It's an environment wholly unfamiliar to the majority of Londoners. It's something experienced by few under the age of 60. It's Friday lunchtime in a Norfolk village pub.
From inside you might think you were standing in a genuine ye olde public house. There are rows of gnarled wooden beams running across the ceiling, with brass tankards hanging at regular intervals along their length. China plates and watercolour prints adorn the walls, while iron-framed lamps flicker silently beside the old oak fireplace. But look more carefully. The half-timbered ceiling is a fake, the walls are far too straight, the fire is gas-powered, and the flames in the lanterns are actually oscillating electric filaments. In reality the pub is a rectangular brick extension bolted onto a tiny Victorian cottage, bought out by a national brewery chain serving gassy beer and non-real ales. But it's still the beating heart of the village.
From all across the surrounding area they come - ladies who lunch and their associated husbands. Some are here to fill their time. They sit in married pairs, communicating infrequently as they pick and chew their way through a shared salad. Others are here to ease their loneliness. They sit in larger groups, smiling and nodding, helping to blot out the fact that there's nobody left to talk to back home. Some have had their hair permed especially for the occasion, others have pulled on a wig and hoped that nobody else will notice the difference. These are the rural retired, splashing out their company pensions over a mild chicken curry and a slice of lemon cheesecake.
And every Friday lunchtime is different. Every week a different selection of almost-gourmet "specials" is chalked up on the board to augment the regular set menu. There's nothing too extreme, nothing too foreign, just wholesome English food with a slightly superior twist. Hotpot still beats noodles, and steak and ale pie still trumps enchiladas. Everything comes with chips or jacket potatoes, accompanied by a small silver tray of seasonal steamed vegetables. Wash it all down with a bottled fruit juice (or a nice cup of non-frothy coffee) and you have the perfect recipe for an unhurried social event.
For those of us who spend our weekdays working in the city, this is the noonday rural world we never see. While we're grabbing a quick sandwich to gulp down at our desks, the grey haired and the retired are busy spending their time (and our inheritance) on cosy two-hour two-course banquets. From what I saw yesterday, it doesn't seem a bad way to live out one's twilight lunchtimes. I just hope that I retain good enough health and a decent enough pension to join the pampered delights of the over-70s pub lunch club one day. Mine's a mixed grill and chocolate tart, thanks.
