I had heard wonderful things about the famous 'Lichfield goose', which is known to be a truly impressive sight during mating season. By happy coincidence, my colleague Raj had told me all about his top-quality dining experience at Chandlers Grande Brasserie. While in Lichfield, I wished to eat there, and so the wife was beholden to join me. We hopped in the car, and headed out onto the A401, then the A1, A406, briefly back onto the A1, then a few Ms [1, 6, 42, 6 again], the A38, 5206, 51, 5127 and so on [or so our 'satellite-nav' would have me believe!].

We strolled in. The only other customers were a single mother [i.e. a 'harlot'] and her young son. I barked my name to the waitress: "Broome!"

"I'm sorry, do you have a reservation, sir?"

"Broome!" I shouted again, without any further explanation. She checked her little book, and, seeing my name was not listed, asked the same question again.

"Of course I have a reservation," I said, knowing full well that I hadn't. "What do you take me for? Broo - me!"

She apologised for the clerical error, and led us to one of many empty tables. Without waiting for a menu, I boomed our order: "We'll both have the soup, and for a main I'll have the duck. The wife will have the salad." The waitress wanted me to be more specific, as apparently they have a wide range of salads available [a plus, in my view], but I simply took a stopwatch out of my pocket, and counted down loudly from five to zero, scaring her away. I proceeded to do the same thing whenever she approached our table. You've never seen anyone serve a basket of bread with so much fear in their eyes!

Eventually, our delicious pumpkin soup arrived. I raised the bowl to my lips and tipped its entire contents down my throat before the waitress had even left the table, giving a satisfied belch immediately afterwards. I urged her to take the wife's bowl away, and burbled something about the story of the tortoise and the hare. I forget its relevance to the matter at hand. To her credit, the waitress obeyed my command, sending the wife into a depressed stupor.

Tiring of such behaviour, I sent her away to the car with a carefully-chosen lie: "I don't remember whether I locked the car. Will you check for me, dearest?" I clumsily threw the car keys and made her scrabble around on the floor for them, before watching her waddle out of the door. I knew full well that the car was locked, of course. Every time I leave a vehicle unattended, I make it a point to rigorously follow the highway code: lock, unlock, then lock again. After eighteen years of happy marriage, I would expect that the wife would be fully aware of this. Her ignorance disappoints me.

While waiting for the main course, I marched around the restaurant, loudly enquiring to no-one in particular whether every single piece of art on the walls was 'a Coleridge', to no response. After this clever jape had run its course, I visited the male branch of the toilet facilities. What I saw next horrored me. Someone had urined in the bowl without flushing! The familiar, oddly comforting smell filled my nostrils as my brain became angry. I knew full well who the prime suspect was. Throwing my jacket over my shoulder [for no particular reason], I stormed back into the dining area, placing both hands on the table where the harlot and the harlot's son sat, staring deeply into his eyes.

"My lad, the finger of justice points squarely at you. As the only persons here in possession of a full set of X chromosomes, I must conclude that it is you, sir, who flagrantly - and fragrantly - refused to use the well-signposted 'flush' facility on the lavatory. Be a man, child! It is time for a lesson in responsibility!"

Turning grandly around and sweeping the jacket behind me in the manner of a cape [I knew there was a reason!], I demanded that the waitress serve me the duck main in the lavatory, as I cleaned it from top to bottom. And so it was. After I was done, the small boy would know full well the joy of a spotless toilets, and would never not flush never again! After ten minutes, the somewhat confused waitress, at my urging, balanced the meal on the side of the sink while I prodded the urinal cakes to properly judge their 'absorbation'. Despite the surroundings, it was the most wonderful duck I've ever had the pleasure of sampling! Indeed, the 'Lichfield goose' would do well to learn a thing or two from 'Chandlers duck'!

After my delicious and disgusting work was done, I swanned back into the dining area, toilet brush in hand, with a triumphant "Ta-daah!" To my chagrin, the harlot and child had left, and the wife was quietly weeping, tears dripping all over her lettuce [which is already 95% water - talk about overkill!]. Sensing that my efforts had gone awry, I whispered the words "chocolate bombe" to the waitress, and held the wife's hand as the kitchen staff prepared her pudding. When it arrived, I let her eat the whole thing, ballooning weight be damned. In her own words, it was "choco-licious".

Leaving a generous tip, we left, swearing to God that we would one day return. It was a truly unforgettable dining experience, and I have no hesitation in recommending Chandlers Grande Brasserie to anyone.

The next day, however, was marked by tragedy, as the 'Lichfield goose' had unfortunately died.