Tarquin ordered the pink lamb rump with a pea and smoked bacon tartlet, lamb fat roasted carrot, chimichurri, and a smoked yoghurt dressing. Sebastian settled on the pasta with lamb ragù and grated pecorino. Sometimes I think I may have made the wrong choice in Mona, said Sebastian. I’m worried. Really worried. Tarquin summoned a waiter. This is bloody awful, he said. Take it back and bring me something I can eat. Okey-dokey, said the waiter, and exited stage slightly left and toward the kitchens, as they say in the theatre. She’s a wonderful human being, Sebastian continued, and a positive amusement park between the sheets, but lately the rides have been closed. She says it’s for maintenance. The in-house pianist doodled a rather melancholy piece that had a little bit of the Chopin about it as well as more than a smidgen of a wistful Jean-Michel Jarre. Her Pa is tremendously rich, said Tarquin, and her Ma .  .  . His voice trailed off because his mind’s eye had a good view of the lady in question. His pride and joy stirred, threatening to stretch his trousers. The waiter returned and placed a dish in front of him. What’s this? Tarquin demanded, dragging his brain back to the matter in hand. Yesterday’s shepherd’s pie, said the waiter. Oh, ace, and yummy-yummy. Ta lots. He tucked in with gusto. Sebastian fired up a panatela in contravention of all known laws and regulations. I’m worried, he said. Really worried.


Conrad Titmuss





This entry was posted on in homepage and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.