Rupert pricked the flesh with his twin-pronged fork and delicately, slowly, carved a waver thin slice away. He raised it over his head, dangling the meat above his lips before sensuously lowering it into his mouth. He loosed a low, contented moan as he chewed, savouring the mastication.
"What's it taste like?" old Tom asked, fingering the strap about his knee.
Rupert cut circles in the air with the tip of his knife, seeking inspiration. "Gamey, like grouse that's been hung just a little too long. Do you want some? Perhaps, just a nibble?"
"No ta, mate!" old Tom exclaimed. "Not my cup of tea, so to speak, chief. What's you fellows again? Epic something?"
"The Chelsea Squires Epicurean Society, Thomas, but if I tell you one more time I'll assume you're showing far too much interest. We wouldn't want that, would we?"
"Just making conversation," Tom muttered.
Rupert carved off another slice. "No discomfort? No pain?"
Tom shook his head. "Haven't felt nothing there for months."
Rupert nodded in sympathy. "I've felt very little of anything for decades."
"So, why ain't you off some place posh eating little birds stuffed inside bigger birds and so on?" Thomas asked.
"Ah, the recession, Thomas. The damned recession. Ill-gotten gains drain away like the pus from a tramp's leg."
"Sorry about that," Thomas said. He cast a yellowed eye over the line of potential diners stretched out of the room, into the corridor and beyond, each with his cutlery in hand. There was good money to be made. He reached out to pinch the meaty part of his other calf between grimy fingers, but winced with pain. Too bad.