Once upon a time* I went to lunch with a pirate. Not just any pirate. My Personal Pirate.
Everyone should have a Personal Pirate. They are more interesting than Personal Financial Advisors, more fun than Personal Trainers and certainly more useful than either. Take note that when choosing a Personal Pirate, he (or indeed she – piracy is an equal opportunity field these days) should have some background in the legal profession. It has no impact on their piratical skill, but it does add a delicious hint of irony.
I am lucky to have a particularly good Personal Pirate who brings swags of loot to all our lunches. The fictional lunch I write about here took place on a hypothetical Friday, so since the PP is Catholic, I thought it would be appropriate to eat fish.
There is a lovely little chippie on Long Street that is distinguished by four things: red-and-white checked cloths on the tables, lemons in the windows, an ancient till on the counter, and an ‘original wood-fired stove’ (complete with indoor wood-pile). All of which make it an eminently suitable place to host a pirate. Or in my case, to be hosted by a pirate.
Because, as usual, I forgot to bring cash. Arrrrrrrrrgh.
*Legal notice: The characters, places** and events described in this post are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental. So there.
** If the chippie actually did exist, it would be called Revelas, and it would have a sign that looked like this: