Again? If the urge ever takes me again?!

‘Like I say,’ I repeat, quite sharply, now, ‘I have never eaten shark and I have never—’

‘Well you can eats it in all manner of ways, Mr Huff!’ she promptly eulogizes. ‘Tastes just like mackerel, it does. You can have it fresh, frozen, dried. The liver is specially prized for its oil. A person can even make leather goods from the hide if they so feels the urge.’

‘My point is—’

‘I just deep fries it in a nice, light batter, Mr Huff. Better still, after soaking the steak in milk, dip it in beaten egg, then a thin layer of flour, then pop it in a hot, oiled pan …’

‘While this is all very educational, Mrs Barrow …’

‘Or make yourself a plain stew, Mr Huff, with chopped carrots, onions, leeks, parsnips, potato …’

‘… I fail to see how …’

‘… nice tin of plum tomatoes …’

‘… this has any relevance with regard to …’

‘Salt. Pepper. Basic stock. Bay leaf …’

‘… the rotting carcass of a shark suddenly appearing …’

‘Celery. Did I forget celery?’

‘… as if by magic …’

‘Be sure to only throw in the diced fish at the last minute. Big handful of chopped parsley to serve …’

‘… or … or voodoo …’

‘Then hey presto, there you have it: sand shark stew, Mr Huff!’

‘Gumbo,’ I interject (broken).

‘Pardon me, Mr Huff?’ Mrs Barrow looks a tad offended.

‘Gumbo,’ I repeat.

‘You can call it mumbo gumbo if you likes, Mr Huff’ – Mrs Barrow is still more offended – ‘but a regular-sized sand shark such as this one here will provide a good hearty family meal, and without breaking the bank, neither.’

‘No, no, gumbo, Mrs Barrow! Gumbo: an American fish and meat dish. A stew.’

‘Oh.’ Mrs Barrow doesn’t look convinced.

‘Although gumbo has plenty of garlic. And it’s generally accompanied by a handful of rice.’

Mrs Barrow’s eyes widen in horror. ‘I’m afraid as Mr Barrow won’t tolerate garlic, Mr Huff! Makes him belch something rotten, it does! Nor rice, neither, except in puddings of course, and even then he generally prefers some sago. He don’t have no stomach for all that foreign muck, Mr Huff. A plain English stew is perfectly all right by him, thank you very much.’

Mrs Barrow rocks back on her wooden soles, arms crossed.

‘Garlic is the mainstay of South American cuisine,’ I stolidly maintain, ‘and it actually has many impressive anti-bacterial qualities …’ I suddenly find myself listing them, almost as if the list itself will somehow validate the feelings of hurt and distress I’m currently experiencing as a direct result of my perceived ill-treatment by the vindictive, bin-stealing, fish-hiding, garlic-hating people of the Great British Isle: ‘It’s good for wounds, Mrs Barrow, ulcers, colds, bladder problems …’

Mrs Barrow starts at the mention of bladder problems. ‘I’ll as thank you to please refrain yourself from trespassing into areas of such a deeply intimate complexion, Mr Huff!’ she exclaims, turns on her heel and heads back inside, affronted. I remain on the balcony for a second, momentarily nonplussed, then turn and follow. She disappears into various rooms and can be heard banging the wide open windows shut.