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This is a fine print of an illustration given to me by Mr Gwarne, depicting Miss Millicent Gwarne cooking some of the daily meals. It was drawn by an artist who often frequented The Boiled Frog Inn.16th February, midday
I had awoken relieved that the 'snortleywiggans' that had been chasing me naked through the streets of Southampton, and who all looked like Mrs Gwarne, were no longer a worry. I ventured that I should steer clear of Mr Gwarne's ale, and of Mrs Gwarne herself, as much as possible before the morrow.
My thoughts returned to the fact that, never having been on a sea voyage before, I don't know if I'll be seasick or not. Consequently, I requested an extra generous serving for breakfast, as I considered that it may well be the last good meal I could have, should it be an exceptionally rough trip. To her credit, Mrs Gwarne obliged me threefold!
I was served 2 poached eggs and FOUR sizeable rashes of bacon, potatoes, a slice of shepherd's pie, FOUR apples (2 of which I put in my satchel for later) and copious rounds of ale to wash it all down with. I must say that I felt as though I had eaten enough provisions for at least 3 weeks after that feast.
I rose to pay the bill for my stay, and felt somewhat at sea already. I turned to thank Miss Millicent first for her graciousness the night before and to farewell her, but instead I found Mrs Gwarne standing so close to me that I could smell her last 3 meals wafting from her open mouth as she leaned toward me, leering and winking.
"We naht seed ee fur a braave spur then, lahd?!! But e'en tho' our daighter's a skinamalink, she be waitin' fur ye when ee return. Ahl try t'feed 'er up on turmots'n'taters an' all, so she be plump an' pluffy on yer homin'."
I reeled back, catching a glimpse of a flushed Miss Millicent running out of the dining room, and bent to pick up my satchel. As I picked up my kit, I was brought upright by a slap on my posterior and was about to address the perpetrator. But I was left mouth agape by Mrs Gwarne chortling: "Ah, you'm a proper 'aythen, me lad. Turnin' thay bottocks tae me! But I can tell that ye be cold hands, warm 'arrt. You'll make a good husband weth she."
"Would there'n be a little token t'give 'ern whilst yer in those far-off lands? A gold piece she can keep near'n 'er bosom p'haps?"
Awash with ale and staggered by her presumptiousness, I proffered her a gold sovereign before I knew what I was doing. I smiled weakly saying, "Er, yes...certainly,...for Miss Millicent's bosom." At the sound of my voice speaking these words, I blushed profusely, spun on my heels and trotted quickly toward the inn door. As I strode off down the street, I glanced back to see Mrs Gwarne waving madly and shouting, "Fare thee well, my son-to-be!" and an abashed Miss Millicent raising a limp hand from her bedroom window. The latter gesture made me falter in my step and the former to hasten my stride.
