Barnaby was the kind of man who took his lunch seriously. Every day at precisely noon, he would retreat to a quiet corner of the village green with a heavy-duty cooler and a flask of tea. Barnaby was a traditionalist, and in his part of the world, there was no meal more sacred than the butty.

"Right then, Barnaby," Dick boomed, hovering over the bench. "That’s a fine-looking specimen you’ve got there."

As he prepared to take his first bite, a shadow fell over his bench. It was Richard, known to everyone in the village as "Dick." Dick was a retired sea captain with a beard like a briar patch and a personality that was equally prickly. He was also notoriously hungry.

A butty, for the uninitiated, was not just a sandwich. It was a structural engineering project. It required thick, buttered slices of white bread and a filling substantial enough to survive a North Sea gale. On this particular Tuesday, Barnaby had prepared a masterpiece: a thick-cut bacon butty with a dollop of brown sauce.

Barnaby sighed. He knew Dick wouldn't leave until he had secured a portion of the prize. With the resigned air of a man paying a tax he didn't owe, Barnaby pulled the sandwich apart. He tore a generous corner off the left side and handed it over.

Dick popped the morsel into his mouth, chewed with theatrical appreciation, and nodded. "Needs more butter, but it'll do. Cheers, Barnaby."

"Bakery’s closed," Dick lied effortlessly. "Power’s out. Only thing left in the village is what’s already between two slices of bread. And that butty looks like it could feed a small crew."