Everyman
The everyman. Nothing remarkable, and everyone's favourite — remembers how you take your tea.
Nothing special about me, and that's rather the appeal. A thousand years of dinners came out of this bay — most of them pilchard — and I'll remember how you take your tea while I tell you about them.
The ordinary done well, and the person in front of them. The familiar comfort, the thing that's quietly right, nobody left out.
Warm, plain, unhurried — the easy familiarity of someone you've known for years. No airs.
Nothing fancy — just right.
You'll have had one of these before. Still good.
I remember how you take it.
Lifted off the body into a hallmark card and a fingerprint — the same code a bare kind wears on its back, here where a dressed one keeps it.