At midday and with a dire need to replace the pneumatic tyres on our charabanc we stop at roadside coaching inn. The restaurant is bedecked with stuffed and grotesquely mounted trophy kills. I am somewhat nonplussed to see staring down from the wall the dusty head of an old woman, her beady, glassy eyes follow our every move and I am more than a little perturbed by the hint of a wry grin hovering on her eternally frozen lips! On enquiry I learn that this unfortunate is non other than Frau Schnitzel, the proprietor's first wife. Good God! After a liberal application of my patent pomade we take our leave and press on into the German hinterland. Whatever next? Regards, Fawcett.