Not Sunday Lunch

Somewhere near here, a Gran has dropped her glasses in the gravy. Kids are arguing about ice cream. Mum thinks the pork is too fatty. Dad really wants to go home & have a kip before the F1 highlights come on.

I don't do Sunday lunch, so I rarely do Sunday lunch pubs. A pint or two, perhaps a bag of ready salted. Banter at the bar; crossword in a quiet corner.

On the week's cusp; reflect on what's gone on before, prepare for what's about to let slip and create havoc.

A moreishly-hopped Amber Ales Dambusters in Derby's Alexandra. The inky liqoriceness of Father Mike's, up the pointy end of the Brunswick next door. Conversation or not. But no roasts required.