July 2047, Yorkshire, England
The patrons nodded to the elderly gentleman as he entered the pub, removed his flat cap, and sat himself at his favorite seat at the bar. He ordered a pint of Real Ale and chatted with the young bartender as she pulled his Bitter from the cask. She was new here, having arrived from the US only a few weeks prior. But she and the old man had already struck up a friendship; she enjoying his stories and he appreciating her interest in the area’s history.
The man settled in with his pint and the daily paper. Around page three he noticed the young woman was struggling to make progress cutting up a pile of limes while also tending to the steady arrival of thirsty patrons and their drink orders.
“Hand them over here and I’ll help.”
“What?”
“The limes. Give them to me and I’ll help you catch up.”
“Oh! Thank you. Here you go.”
After pushing over the cutting board and bag of limes she began to pass him the knife. Casually waving it off, he said “thank you, but no need: I’ve brought my own.” He carefully withdrew a modest-sized folding knife from his right front pocket, opened it, and reached for a lime.
“This should be interesting,” she thought. But, before she could watch, a group of customers burst through the door and headed directly to the bar to place their order. Pints and chip butties for the lot. Frankly, she didn’t understand the appeal of the sandwiches, but they certainly were popular.
Returning her attention to the man, she was surprised to see a stack of neatly-cut lime wedges arranged on the cutting board. He was wiping the blade clean with a napkin, preparing to return the knife to his pocket.
“Wow! That must be quite a knife! What kind is it?”
“It is indeed. It’s called a lambsfoot. It’s my favorite style. This one is particularly special. It’s from a batch I had made thirty years ago.”
“Lambsfoot? Neat! I think it’s called a sheepsfoot in America. I love learning these regional differences in language.”
The man smiled at that.
“We call a sheepsfoot a sheepsfoot here, too, but a lambsfoot is different. Notice how the blade tapers as it gets towards to tip? That’s the defining characteristic. The spine of a sheepsfoot blade is parallel to the edge all the way down. It may seem like a small point, but, believe me, it makes a big difference.”
“I don’t know. Thirty years is a lot of use. How do I know it didn’t start out parallel and then get that taper as you sharpened it over the years?”
“Ah. Clever! You’ve got good wits about you. But, think about it: if that were the case the edge would trend up to the spine, but here the spine trends down to the tip.”
“Oh. Good point. Hmm.”
He deftly rotated the still-open knife in his hand so that he could present it to her handle-first. “Here, you don’t have to take my word for it. Take a look for yourself.”
She was puzzled at first, but then a smile appeared on her face just as she let out a good laugh.
“Real Lamb Foot! OK, Jack, you win! I’m sorry for doubting. Let me buy you a pint and you can tell me more about it.”
“Thank you. I’d love that, but it’ll have to wait until next time. I’m off to Sheffield in the morning and have some things to attend to first.”
With that, the man stood up from his seat, grabbed his hat, waved goodbye to the other patrons, and headed to the door.
“Real Lamb Foot. Who would have thought...” the bartender muttered to herself. She was going to have to find out more.
To be continued.
, and the hail is so destructive! 
