A hasty exit

Barry was chef at The Brocket. Now Barry was a nice guy and my son Tom got on well with him.... he gets on well with most people. Tom washed the dishes. Hardly stretching, but he learnt from Barry... not anything gastronomical, but rather Anglo-Saxonomical! Words that Tom would never dare repeat to his mum!

One Sunday, Barry blew his stack, around lunchtime... after rowing with Tobes, following which, Barry walked out, never to return. With no-one to cook anything, washer-upper Tom though this meant an easy life for him. No chef=no food=no washing-up!

If only!