​

 

The Boar’s Head sits at the heart of Ripley, the privately owned village just north of Harrogate. John was standing near the entrance with Uncle George while they waited for their wives.

 

As they looked up they saw three posh Yorkshire ladies walking towards them along the gravel path.

“I pay my gardener by bank transfer,” said one.

“Oh, I give mine a cheque,” said another.

“Mine prefers cash,” said the third.

 

As they passed by the men, George said: “Ayup duck.”

 

“Hello,” chorused the reply.

 

As the fragrance moved on George said to John:

 

“ I’ll speak to anyone, me.”