Thelonious sighed miserably. He would need a second lunch after this gastronomic feast if he hoped to rid himself of the vacancy in his belly.
By the time he left The Pheasant Inn, there was little sign of the summer sun he’d initially planned to have his lunch beneath. In fact, it looked like rain. At some point between the beer garden yuppies and the Cuban cigars Thelonious had lost all desire to take any photos in the village and really just wanted to be on his way, having wasted enough valuable time already. Perhaps he should’ve taken a photo of that ridiculous lunch he’d been served and sent it in to Ripley’s Believe It or Not!, because frankly, Thelonious still could not believe it.
On his way to the car, a gust of wind nearly blew his deerstalker hat clear off his head. Thelonious
