Too hot, can't sleep, so here's a little story.

Mrs Plum de le snaith-butcher was an educated and very classy lady. Old age had somewhat robbed a few crumbs of dignity from her, but she was not to be held back and was partaking in a university of the third age food tasting trip to an esteemed food pub, The Pope in the Tree in the Leicestershire countryside. Open fire. Original oak beams. Botanical beer garden. Steeped in history. Ale soaked into wood. Cracking fire. Grandeur. Coat of arms. Parva Narborough Magna Kirby Harcourt boasted two fine pubs, The Pope being one of them and The Beef and Gart being the other.

Speaking in her finest reticulated English, Mrs Plum lead the party of octogenarians into the orangery, but first she had to walk steadily through the main bar, a feat she could manage but only with guidance from peers and a steady thought process to overcome myasthenia and a recent cataract operation.

In the main bar, a man who didn't quite fit in, banged a button on a Triple Dond Awp. Simultaneously he shouted a few things.



"Why don't you just go home and open a tin of alphabetty spaghetti and fish all the vowels out of it?"


"Don't you love me baby?"

The human league stopped.

Mrs plum paused as the ranting about opera cats and felix sensation crunchy started up again.

"Shall we go to The Beef and Gart?"




The rest of the group agreed