Sowerbutt was looking forward to
some time with his lady; a quiet meal in the small dining room at the
George Hotel, round the corner in George Street, was the plan. The
kindly chef was past the call-up age but still passionate about his
cooking. His liver dumplings with fried onions and roast breast of lamb with
mint stuffing were legendary across Bedfordshire. Sowerbutt licked his lips
thinking about the chef’s spiced apple fool.
Smiling, he opened the door to the upstairs flat
to be greeted by two high-heel shoes followed by the local, thankfully thin,
telephone directory. “Ooh, you bastard, I’m running out of things to throw at
you,” Polly shouted. Fending off a succession of red, black and gold cushions from the settee, he made
his way into the lounge-room. He never knew what to expect with Polly, anger or
amore.
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