Friday 22 November 2013

#60 - Fish-Fingers, Chicken-Fingers, Apple Pie, Poo

The first three courses were an unmitigated success.
Quentin quaffed a schooner of sherry and congratulated himself.
'Nice one, Quentipops,' he whispered, imagining it was his Dad talking.
A portrait of the Duke of Buccleuch seemed to wink at him
from above the sideboard. He clenched his fist
and kissed his snuff-ring, capped with a moonstone.
Dessert was coming. He trusted Monsieur Shits-In-The-Pudding
implicitly. The sound of happy laughter
trickled in from the dining room. Quentin prinked his moustache.
The Duke of Buccleuch did the gun and the wink.

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