Step inside though and all that changes. I am seated at what appears to be an old tea trolley, decorated with china dogs and an assortment of mismatched cutlery. In fact, the whole place is kitted out with charity shop finds, giving the impression that it has been recently vacated in haste by the Mad Hatter and his cronies (a thought that seems increasingly well-founded as my meal progresses).
I am offered a glass of water. “Would you like a Polo with that?” asks my waitress, presenting a golden platter studded with mints. “Or perhaps I could just add it to your water?” I am unsure what to say and before I can utter anything intelligible, a Polo mint is staring up at me from the bottom of my glass. “Better give that a minute to dissolve,” she advises.
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