Failed voice recognition; Isle of Sheppey; Aldi

Took advantage of having the house to myself for the first part of the long weekend - Ruth having been seized with a desire to go riding and taken herself off to her aunt's house - to have a Saturday night in with Chardonnay, DVDs and some waxing strips, but don't think I'll be trying the waxing again in a hurry.

Met Ray on Sunday for a leisurely lunch at Francesco’s in Maidenhead, a laid-back town centre eaterie that’s been there for some years – since the cinema complex was built it’s now surrounded by the likes of Pizza Hut and the Ivory Lounge, but I was pleased to discover it’s survived thus far. After lunch and a brief wander around the town, I telephoned National Rail Enquiries to find out the time of the next train back to Reading. Evidently I haven’t used the service for quite some time, as it's turned into an automated service since I last used it. The conversation ran roughly along these lines:

“Without pressing any buttons, please state the name of the station you are travelling from.”

“Maidenhead.”

“Thank you. I think you said ‘Sheerness-on-Sea’?”

“Um, no, I didn’t.”

Ray then had a go and managed to get a shade geographically closer by saying “MAI-DEN-HEAD” very slowly and clearly, which the machine interpreted as ‘Yateley’. Gave up after that and opted to speak to a customer service adviser.

At Sheerness

Part of my frustration with the audio recognition was doubtless the thought of being accidentally routed to Sheerness-on-Sea. Ray and I visited Sheerness briefly in 1998 (pictures of the weekend here). At the time of our visit, the only road link from mainland Kent to the Isle of Sheppey was via the imposingly concrete and rather Eastern Bloc-like Kingsferry Bridge, which I recall added to a bleak sense of impending doom as we drove onto the island (a newer Sheppey Crossing was opened in 2006). We drove to Sheerness, parked, had a quick walk down to the front past an enormous amusement arcade, stood around a bit looking at views of power stations, before concluding that there wasn’t much doing and leaving. The picture is of me sitting on the front having a bit of a ponder - probably as to what I was doing there.

Our visit to the Isle of Sheppey was as part of a weekend spent exploring Rochester and Chatham, including a visit to the Historic Dockyard at Chatham. Ray has never forgiven me for showing insufficient interest in the Historic Dockyard, particularly in the Ropery, dedicated to demonstrating the importance of rope to the Royal Navy and how it was made. Obviously I’m as interested in rope as the next gal, but I remember deciding to call it a day at this point and going off to get a strawberry ice cream, while Ray rather huffily went into the exhibition by himself.

On Monday, on a whim, Ruth and I went along to our local branch of Aldi. I had never set foot in Aldi before, but following rumours in the press that Aldi and its ilk are the new trendy places to go for middle-class shoppers feeling conscious of the credit crunch, and also following Aldi’s recent TV advertising campaign which seems to be trying to persuade shoppers that they can actually get nice food there (“Look, we sell pesto too”), I fancied paying it a visit. Some credit to them for focusing on the latter I guess – unlike Iceland, which doesn’t even attempt a pretence that its food is nice, but just focuses on how cheap it is – their ads make me want to push Kerry Katona’s face into a chicken tikka lasagne (don’t want to think about who actually buys these - the Independent had this to say earlier in the year about Iceland's notion of fusion cuisine). So I went along half-expecting to discover a hidden gem and come out thinking “actually, Aldi’s quite nice”. In reality, our consensus of opinion was “no, actually, it is shit”. I bought a box of peppermint tea bags, brand unknown, and Ruth bought a bunch of bananas. We called in at Waitrose on the way home to buy the things we hadn’t been able to find in Aldi, and to bask in the comforting air of civilised quality.

Also, why is it that discount shops always sell enormous jars of pickles? Aldi does it, as does Lidl, as does the 99p store. Is the idea that poor people will be cheered up by lots of really big pickles?