When I told my Dad I'd be taking him to Albert's Shed for his Father's day treat, he responded with a long drawn out breath, followed by a loud guffaw, followed by something that sounded like a snort, followed by a sentence that roughly went as follows, "Who the fuck eats in a shed?" Except, of course, there was no expletive. That, dear readers, is my own, small embellishment. Incidentally, never trust a writer who directly addresses his readers.
So Bertie's Shed is a lot more than a shed. It's part of the Duke's 92 establishment and will, as chance happenstances, provide the food for my forthcoming wedding. Impress it must, then, for I will not eat shit at such an important event; not in front of the world's press anyway.
Did it impress? Did it manage to tickle my taste buds into a frightful frenzy? Nope.
