Fine dining, my arse

As it was Friday, the end of a frantic (yet most excellent) month, and the sun was shining, I decreed we must go for a lovely curry.

I called to book a table for three at this place in Leith which is meant to do really nice grub. Table available. All good, no problem.

Until we get there and the man at the door says, coldly, "No children."

"Excuse me?"

"This is fine dining. No children."


Bella's eaten out with us since being just a few weeks old. In fact, she's probably been out for dinner more times than the bloke telling her she couldn't come in. And she's been polite and well behaved every single time.

How very dare they.

She cried all the way to Pizza Express, where she was met with a warm smile, four dough balls, a salad, a pizza and a strawberry sundae.

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