George: A Fort
The scone looked back at me with a quizzical smirk. "No, I am not a scon" it confirmed. The waiter had been scornful, scornful in that sconful sort of looking down the bent nose way at me suggesting that me, a mere southerner would dare to come to such a place. Well, I did. I sliced happily into the scone, lathered the butter, jam layering on top and scoffed the lot. My tum settled in satisfaction. The young waiter bristled like a prison guard about to bring his power to bear on the unfortunate inmates.
The gloom gathered. Dark walls closed in. An occasional Army bod in tracksuit jogged by, muscles hid under layers of warm clothing. An air of foreboding presented itself and there were no dolphins to watch, to lift the heart. Trudging across the square we listened to the electric talking device about this and that. More of that than this really. That's the sort of place it is, stuck out on the sandy spit in the estuary, cannons placed strategically o'er the top of the strong, thick and foreboding walls. THAT's the sort of place I mean. Old and everything.
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