Finding Jesus in my soup
David stared into the bowl of soup where the face of Jesus had materialised and wondered why The Man looked so much like a serial killer. “I mean, if you’re the Son of God you can look like anyone, right?”
The face widened its eyes a little, rivulets of Heinz Cream of Tomato streaming to the sides of the plate like the parting of the Red Sea in miniature. For an entity without even a whole head, it did a remarkably accurate approximation of a shrug.
â€œWell, what’s that supposed to mean?â€
The manifestation of the divine smiled and opened its mouth. Thick reddish orange liquid bubbled around the words. â€œI look as you expect me to look.â€
â€œBollocks,â€ David said. â€œI expect you to look like Robert Powell. And don’t give me thatÂ disapproving look â€“ you’re a bowl of soup. I can talk to a bowl of soup any way I like.â€
â€œGonnae keep the noise doon, Chief?â€
David looked up. Gordon was sitting at the table opposite with his own bowl of soup upturned by his side. As usual, he’d been finger painting and the front of his hospital gown was covered in a lattice of thick orange smears.
â€œKeep it down yourself, Gordon,â€ David scowled. â€œI’m trying to have a conversation with Jesus.â€
â€œYer talkin’ tae yer soup again, boy. D’ye no think it’s time ye stopped it?â€
â€œDo you hear me passing comment when youâ€™re smearing shit on the walls of your ward? Or screaming abuse at the seagulls? Have I ever said a word about you sitting up half the night chatting to the furniture?â€
Gordon thought about this for a moment. â€œNaw, Chief. Yeâ€™ve never said anything. But then, Iâ€™m just a mad bampotÂ – youâ€™re a bloody doctor.â€