“Well... Sure, but, like... I’ve only got the one spoon,” I reply with a little too much enthusiasm because I think I’m onto something. To further the gravity of my statement I quickly put the spoon in my mouth like a dog marking his territory – this spoon is mine, and by extension this yoghurt is mine.
“Oh!” The noise comes from Mr Turner as though it should be underlined, emphasised with disappointment, but instead it has a kind of glee embossed in the very tone of it. “That’s alright, Mr Connor. I have my own.”
And from the desk he pulls a startlingly reflective spoon.
Some demonic weapon crafted for this very moment and wielded with the precision of a master.
I am slain.
My defence has been shattered and I grumble wordlessly, my shoulders sagging as I slink my way to the front of
