Issue 66 - Tale of a Lobworm
Mine's a Guinness,” gloomed Dick, squeezing into the corner seat by the rough trestle table in the smokefilled Irish bar. The sun had been hot, the lake flat and the boat thwarts hard on the bum, so we’d retreated to Murphy’s shade.
“Anything to go with it?” enquired Vic, his cheerful exbomber pilot friend.
Handsome Derek and I looked at each other and smiled. Dick’s appetite was notorious, as we’d learned in just the few days it had kept us company at Paddy O’Reilly’s dinner table. Vic came back from the bar bearing bad news. “They’ve just run out of crisps,” he grimaced, “and the salted nuts don’t arrive till tomorrow.”
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