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Tuesday, 8 November 2016

In which chips are consumed...

That rarest of occasions...

Lunch out!

The Iron Duke: a Wetherspoons in Wellington.

Previous experience of such venues have been the roof garden in Ilfracombe, overlooking a curious construction, purporting to be a theatre, but resembling a giant pair of nellies, quite incongruous with it's surroundings.

I digress, Dear Reader, back to the present day and the impromptu luncheon with The Admiral.

'Tis a value for money establishment, if you like chips and burgers. As you know, One is at odds with the great unwashed and favours neither.

Rude not to though and scoffed same anyway.

'Ave yer finished' enquired the sturdy thighed waitress. Oddly, since One was still masticating the reasonably priced item.

'No' said One and buried One's nose in the Arts section of the times.

One did sympathise with the type though, since she was visibly keen to see the arse end of One and the A, since, for some obscure reason, he kept whistling Torreador and beating time on the table with his telescope.

One, used to the peculiar behaviour of the cove since he tipped over the edge, sometimes forgets that the assembled populous may not be familiar with such erratic behaviour, attempted to divert his attention by pointing out a vast tapestry of The Duke on his mount Copenhagen.

All to no avail, since the A was intent on capturing the eye of the thick thighed waitress.

He proffered a toothless grin in her gen direc as she fled toward the kitchen and he was either extremely pleased to see her rear view or he'd stored the remains of his Cornetto on his lap under his blankie.

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