If you are spending a week in Budapest for dentistry – which we were – there are some basics you need.

And the means to create tasty adult baby food is one of them.

That means trips to the Spar supermarket in the nearby shopping mall called Mammut.

In it, you can get a Thai massage, shop in H&M or indeed in Marks and Spencers, buy and apartment or a pet bird, and buy a potato peeler and masher – necessary for the obvious reasons, and not supplied in the apartment despite the fact it is rented almost exclusively to those coming on dentistry missions.

I am sure there are quiet times in Spar when you can waltz through the checkout but I don’t manage to hit on any.

So, I queued up with everyone else, hoping that my grasp of the currency would mean that I didn’t brandish the equivalent of a £20 note for some milk and potatoes – and that I would get change that was in notes rather than the completely incomprehensible coins which I can only distinguish one from another with my glasses on and in a good light.

( A very nice young woman at the bakery stall in the market had kindly taken all my coins and given me the note equivalents the day before – it made me absurdly grateful.)

One day, there was a young Goth on the Spar till. She had white eyelashes and very white makeup and some rather painful looking tattoos on the back of her hands.

She dealt with the man who seemed to be discussing at length some issue around his store card points – though he could have been talking about the national debt for all I knew.

Then there was a woman who seemed to have bought the complete frozen fish stock of the place and wanted each item put in a plastic bag before she would move on.

And then it was my turn. I smiled and  packed my rucksack as quickly as I could – despite, or maybe because of, the long queues the till women are ruthless at getting everything processed quickly.

Then she said something to me and I was lost. ‘Sorry, mm, sorry,” I said.

‘Oh,’ the nice Goth girl said, ‘ I was just asking if you wanted a voucher but don’t worry, it probably won’t be of any use to you. Are you here on holiday or for dentistry? Have a very nice stay in Budapest and have a good day, thank you for shopping Spar.’

Opposite our modest apartment in Budapest is a rather remarkable building.

Originally built in the 1800s as a military hospital and then turned into a concert hall, it was ‘transformed’ in the late 1990s into a stone, wood and shingles building stretching down the street and round the corner.

This is a city with some very big buildings – modesty in architecture seems not to be a Hungarian trait.

The parliament building is huge – makes our Palace of Westminster look positively unassuming. I am not sure what ratio of laws to square metres each produces but if there is a direct link, then the Hungarians must have more laws than they know what do with.

So, here we are for a week and this is our view which is not bad, but the Swan Building also had a nice little secret.

I spotted a board on the street not a minute’s walk down the road.

You go through a chain link gate and follow the path – halfway along, there is another notice telling you  to ‘be brave and keep going.’

And then there is a bar semi-sourrounded by the building and under trees with outside tables and chairs  – and the promise of a rabbit.

Needless the say, this is where we can be found every early evening.

Last night we sat next to a table at which were a group of students and a (almost inevitably) pony-tailed ‘professor’ talking about creative writing.

One of the students volunteered to read out what he had been writing.

Suffice it to say, his explanation afterwards of his hero was, ‘Jimmy was a randomnist and before that, he was a contrarian.’

( No, I haven’t translated this from the Hungarian – they were English-speaking. My grasp of Hungarian stretches to hello and thank you….)

As Nick said, sotto voce, ‘ The crucial thing is how to break the silence at the end of that reading.’

When I went in to pay the bill inside, the nice young man at the bar told me that the building was controversial when it was built because ‘ many people still had communist ideas of architecture and this was a fairy house.’

He also told me the building was problematic, ‘ an architect’s idea, but not really practical.’

The roof leaks, the offices – for it is mostly businesses in there – are too small and the windows shadowed by the stonework make them dark and pokey.

(Not like the big windows and un-leaking roofs of proper communist style buildings….)

But, he told me, you get an interesting cross-section of people in the garden bar, like the writers, he said.

‘Is the one talking all the time any good? It sounds not so good to me but then I don’t speak English that well.’

‘Oh, you do,’ I said.

I asked if the promised rabbit was in a stew.

‘No, no not at all, he is on holiday until the sun is warmer and it stops raining.’

‘Are you here on holiday or for dentistry? ‘  The question everyone in Budapest asks a British visitor.

Being this time of year, Easter and all, there is much lamb stuff about and always willing to join in, I have had three lamb ‘references’ recently.

We went to a surprise birthday lunch for a good friend of Nick’s held in a very nice pub next to the river near Oxford. We got their early so had time to peruse the very nice menu.

We hardly ever eat out as I am not willing to go to somewhere where I feel ( not always rightly) that I could cook the food as well as they can. ( There are, of course other reasons, such as never being that organised/dressed up/willing to leave the fire and the telly…)

I hasten to add, this was not the case at The Perch. The menu all looked very delicious and I had my eye fixed on smoked goose and the rest of the ‘Butcher’s platter’ for a starter and then for main- well, not the fish and chips as you always get that at a pub, not the lamb shank because I can do that but hey ho, maybe the barbary duck….

So, we all sat down at the table and I knew I was the youngest there, always a nice feeling. Not by much, and indeed not in as good a shape as the retired GP next to me, but still.

The host suggested we would only have one course and not as bothered about the duck as the goose, I settled on that.

However, as I was basking in my relative youthfulness, I decided not to reach into my bag for my glasses and point out what I wanted to the Hungarian waiter.

‘The platter,’ I said. ‘With pickled vegetables?’ He said. ‘Yes,’ I said, thinking how nice, a bonus. ‘With chips,’ I said. ‘Small or large?’ he said. ‘Small,’ I said, feeling rather smug.

Of course, dear reader, what I got was a platter of pickled vegetables and some chips. And the moral is, those of us who are not spring lambs anymore, should always reach for our glasses.

A couple who were there, were sheep farmers.

This is the nice thing about a lunch like that.

You have the GP talking about setting up a practice to provide medical care for refugees in Bradford and alongside that, information on how you get a ewe to adopt a lamb.

It involved sheep psychology of course, something about making the lamb smell right to get it licked and once licked, it was on to a winner – and being willing to be up all night if necessary to make sure all was well in the lambing shed.

They were lawyers turned lamb experts.

Having wasted my lunch out on a pickled carrot or two, I was pleased to be looking forward to lamb kleftiko, which I planned to cook the next day.

We don’t often do the full meat thing unless we have visitors, so it was a treat.

I have enjoyed lamb kleftiko in Greece, but the best time was in Brussels.

My best beloved was in charge of a multi-national European team.

Stavros, (unsurprisingly a Greek, ) expansively announced that if Greece should win the Euro Cup that year, he would take all of us to lunch at the very nice Greek restaurant nearby.

Well, much to everyone’s surprise, Greece did win and the restaurant provided amazing lamb kleftiko for us all.

( The origins of this dish are said to be sheep minders or rustlers – depending on who you listen to – who dug a pit, put a fire in the bottom, threw in the lamb and cooked it very slowly. The pit was covered so no one would see the smoke – so my money is on rustlers. Nowadays it gets cooked slowly on a bed of garlic, lemon and potatoes.)

All a cinch if you have an aga.

But somehow, I messed it up. Wrong potatoes – and yes, that does matter. Wrong lamb – decided a leg was too much for two people so had no bone in my lamb – and yes that does matter too. And so on and so on.

It was OK and saw us through Antiques Roadshow, but not my proudest lamb moment.

Astute readers who have got this far will be expecting the third lamb reference, but this is long enough as a blog and I have to get the pseudo-moussaka made with the leftover lamb, in the oven so the last lamb instalment will be later.