THIRTY-FOUR
A severe looking Savoy waiter, moving as if he had a carrot up his backside, tripped a loose bowelled light fantastique (which should have alerted the gathering around the brunch table, if the big red fez didn’t, but it didn’t). He danced up to the inordinately messy table, nonchalantly leaned over and let down the tyres of the archbishop’s bike. He ahemmed, startling Jack who was distracted listening to the hiss from the bike tyres and wondering if it was him. He sniffed the air, the hint of puncture repair kit from his youth, so it wasn’t him. However, the shock of the intrusion from the befezzed and schoolboy-pyjama’d waiter, with a crusty five o’clock shadow, caused Jack to spill the scalding hot gravy over his inordinately clumsy hands and, as a consequence, he dropped th
