TWELVE
Seb saved the final crust, from the smaller piece of bread, for the ceremonial wiping of the bowl, performed with his accustomed aplomb that his Mum, now a tad tired of waiting, assumed was the way he wiped his arse, and he managed to collect the entire soup residue and sat back as he chewed; the plate appeared polished. Beryl folded the starched napkin, perfectly, into the ironed creases, rolled and inserted it into the sterling silver ring and handed it to her son. Seb turned the ring so the engraving of the man digging the grave was astride the fold of the napkin, and with his perfect handkerchief, he polished the last residues of fingerprints from the ring and placed it on the tray, in its correct position. He picked up his floor cloth and spoke to his mum as he wiped the soles
