3
“’Ere, you don’t wanna be going down there, me old mate – place is full o’ weirdos.”
Thomas Sheffield rolled his eyes and tried desperately to keep his temper under control. His doctor had warned him about his blood pressure on more than one occasion, and he was not about to let some local yokel land him in hospital with a stroke or a heart attack.
“Yes, thank you, that’s most interesting.” Thomas smiled, weakly. “Now, if you would be kind enough to point me in the right direction, I’ll be on my way.”
The old farmer rubbed his unshaven chin, thoughtfully. “What was it you said you wanted to go there fer again, spoons or somink?”
“Cutlery,” repeated Thomas for the third time, wishing he had never brought up the subject in the first place. If only his company would supply their salesp
