As Grace and Terry walked along the almost deserted Whitburn promenade, it began to rain again, not heavily but a thin grey miserable drizzle and they quickened their pace to get to the fish restaurant.
Located halfway along the promenade, next to an art gallery displaying poorly executed seascapes on one side and a shop selling tourist crap on the other, the ‘Blue Oyster Fish Restaurant’ oozed a quality totally at odds with most of Whitburn’s other restaurants and ‘attractions.’ It was double fronted, brightly lit, decorated in muted cream paint and subtle patterned wallpaper and small crystal chandeliers.
The tables were laid with crisp white cotton table cloths, starched cotton napkins and solid Sheffield ENPS cutlery. The stainless-steel salt mill contained Himalayan Salt and the p
