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.

“Well, what’s that supposed to mean?”

The manifestation of the divine smiled and opened its mouth. Thick reddish orange liquid bubbled around the words. “I look as you expect me to look.”

“Bollocks,” David said. “I expect you to look like Robert Powell. And don’t give me that  disapproving look – you’re a bowl of soup. I can talk to a bowl of soup any way I like.”

“Gonnae keep the noise doon, Chief?”

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.

“Keep it down yourself, Gordon,” David scowled. “I’m trying to have a conversation with Jesus.”

“Yer talkin’ tae yer soup again, boy. D’ye no think it’s time ye stopped it?”

“Do you hear me passing comment when you’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?”

Gordon thought about this for a moment. “Naw, Chief. Ye’ve never said anything. But then, I’m just a mad bampot  – you’re a bloody doctor.”

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