But we still had to scrape our plates

We had dinner at Balliol College t'other night. Anyone else who regularly attended the Leonard cafeteria at Queen's will share my awe. The place was done up in mood lighting, the tables and floorboards bore the patina of centuries, portly dead white men stared down at you disapprovingly from portraits (except for a rather rakish young toff, the only one with hair that wasn't white, who looked a bit like a young Mordecai Richler from where I was sitting), and a giant stained-glass window faced a majestic pipe organ on the opposite wall. And this was only the junior dining hall. At the end of the room you can see the high table, where the chosen few are apparently served a far better meal than that available to the serfs below. I'd worry about being pelted with mushy peas, if I were them. Especially those with their backs to the floor.



I have to share my dad's response to the post in his honour:
"Nice to know that by chipping away at it, the pun would find a plaice in our hearts. Cod it be any batter? (I bet you smelt that coming, huh?)"
I have learned from a master.
(Mom, I'm sorry for yet again offending your refined sensibilities ...)