`Twas a gay pleasure indeed to find myself perambulating `twixt the railway stations of this joyous splendid town, when I first chanced upon La Place des Comestibles that turns out to known as Le h`Ube to the local yeomanry.
Trenchermen all, no doubt.
So was it not grand to be so invited to dine and be seated at the foot of a sumptous salle de manger?
The local gentlemen of the road bid me tarry did they not/ Who was I indeed to gainsay these splendid fellows en passant between Yeovil and Weymouth, set foursquare to a prevaillant that I deemed maybe south, bidding upon the South and westerly so familiar to we country folk.
Oh how fragrant the carefully sauteed cabbage, how visionary the creamed potatoes turned out to be. Le Viande was clearly sourced in the locale and le Bisto de jus was a riotous pleasure upon the tongue.
Les carrottes were similarly of a craven vintage that begged culmination as I playfully toyed with them atop the formica de table.
Yes-only the best Adams ale followed and a rapturous custarde avec melange de fruts des tinnes set the very seal on a topping day.
My pet fly Jean enjoyed the shit that was outside on the entrance step too.
Oh, give it neuf dear boy...at least a neufs a neuf!
Lets hope it be a fair wind for when I deign to test the flophouse palace by Weymouths old gasometer...they say it be a splendour as Spring enfolds.
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