Example (as if one were needed...) of her piss-poor writing skills:
"On Saturday afternoon, though, something funny did happen.
I went to meet Isobel in the café at the Forbidden Corner, the other side of Leyburn. She assured me the café is lovely, but trust me, it’s not Ottolenghi or Villandry: inside it has barriers, the like of which you get in petrol station shops.
Anyway, we sat down with our awful cake (I still dream about Ottolenghi’s vanilla cupcake), and Isobel started to talk about how plans are going for her new organic café/farm shop, at Catterick, just off the A1.
She said a man had phoned her, and told her he is a historian. Apparently, a bomber aircraft had crash-landed on the site during the war and two airmen were killed. One was a Canadian called Bob.
The historian told Isobel that Bob haunts the spot, adding that at the point of impact he was decapitated. ‘I asked him how he knows that, and he said his great aunt or something was first on the scene, and removed the bodies.’
‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Well, I’m not telling the staff, because they won’t want to stay late, and lock up.’
This last paragraph would have been funny, only I laughed so much – given my antiquity – that I wet myself. Thank God I was only driving the Land Rover, not the Merc."
Aside from slandering the cafe and informing the staff of her bestest friends shop of something said BF didn't want them to know, she can't remember if she's talking to Isobel in the cafe, or the car. Also, must we assume that, until she got home to wash said bloomers (one of only two pairs she possesses, let us not forget), she was going commando ?
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