The quest for fine food brought myself and Glenda to the beautiful surroundings of Hampshire.
On the short drive from our country pile to The Wedged Hat, Glenda felt the need to constantly change the radio settings that I had spent several hours perfecting. I was already annoyed by the time we turned in to the long gravelled drive.
The quaint pub was pleasing to the eye, a mixture of Edwardian charm and 80's Wimpey modernisation.
Upon entering the establishment, Glenda pointed out the mixture of modern art and Mediaeval faux ancestry, dotted about the building. I was aware of it, as I'd just stubbed my toe on a rather cumbersome suit of armour, propped in the porch.
Reeling from the searing pain shooting through my foot, we were greeted by Marta, the four foot tall Polish front of house manager, with a faint moustache.
She was very pleasant. Well myself and Glenda assumed she was pleasant, she constantly smiled at us as she waffled on in a mixture of her native language, and some hotch potch of broken faux-English that really made no sense.
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