In this case the restaurant that used to be the 'Old Bank' public house, the very place where BH and I used to meet of a Friday afternoon before finding somewhere suitable to eat. Perhaps Caspers, a rather good restaurant, said to have been run as a vanity operation for a son in law, now long departed. One part of the complex was a B&B, probably dating from the days when travelling salesmen stayed over, and another was a wine bar, a place which used to do a good trade on a Sunday afternoon. With the restaurant being the place which introduced us to chateaubriand steak and which also allowed one to take a cigar after one's meal. Just presently, possibly going through a Persian phase.
While the master of ceremonies at the Old Bank used to start dropping heavy hints around 1930 about it being time for older people to move on. And we make a fair amount of use of the place in its current format: reliable and reasonable, but it is wise to book for times like early evening on a Saturday. It might be near empty, but then again, it might not be - and we have been caught out a couple of times.
I suppose I show my age by being irritated by plastic pot plants, perhaps particularly because I am rather fond of box (see reference 1). But by the time the children are my age I expect they will be surprised to learn that such things ever were real plants. Just think of all the bother and mess.
And it is not as if fake plants are any more inappropriate that all that architectural trim which faintly echoes building practises of bygone eras. The plants brighten the place up. They probably, for the moment anyway, carry the positive emotional charge of real plants. They make us feel good, provided we do not stop and look too closely.
Reference 1: http://psmv3.blogspot.co.uk/2017/09/buxus-sempervirens.html.
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