“Been up to the church, have you?” A familiar voice jarred my musings as I walked back through the quiet village of Rattlesden. Again, it was Dave, only this time he was weeding a garden beside the pub. I stopped for a moment and watched him turn over the garden.
“So Dave, the food in the pub, you didn’t actually say before—”
“Well,” said Dave with a smile spread with irony. “He calls himself a chef, but as far as I’m concerned, he’s just a cook. But the food is not too bad.”
Well, it hadn’t been too bad at all. In fact, the Sunday cold plate had passed all expectations. Not that expectations for food in pubs ever ran that high with me. But the fact was, our “local” was very local, just a two-minute walk away. And the menu was surprisingly adventurous. So it seemed churlish not to try the place for a hot dinner. I ambled back to our little nest. I found Lew, recalled to life and back in the kitchen, making tea.
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