Fine dining is a phrase that is apt to make me a little nervous. I have never quite mastered the art of being seated gracefully by a waiter moving a chair ever closer to me in the expectation that I will gently float down on to it. I usually become flustered, attempt to manhandle the chair myself and usually edntrap one of my feet in my handbag straps that snake wildly around the based of the table.
I am also a dab hand at hitting things over on the table when reaching down to pick up the over (...)
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Tags: Combe, dinner, Hay, Wheatsheaf