I’ve got to begin with a confession. I don’t usually like butcher’s shops. I can’t walk down the fresh-meat aisle in a supermarket. The smell makes me feel ill, and when I look around all I can think about is carnage. If I had to buy meat from there I’d be a vegetarian. So why am I going to rave about a butcher’s shop? Well, it doesn’t really feel like one. “Bacon”, I said to my friend one day. “I’m sick of all the stuff that oozes white goo and tastes like salty cardboard and I don’t seem to be able to get anything else in the supermarket.” “Don’t you know about David Lishman?” she said, in ...
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