Mr Lamb the butcher

Mr Lamb the butcher skulks behind glass, in his kingdom of sawdust and blood.

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Mr Lamb the butcher numbers among his favourite things curly hair, dew, Miss Marple, black pudding, Punch and Judy, daffodils and thrash metal.

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“Pleased to meat you,” said Mr Lamb the butcher, eyeing up his new customers, imagining their hanging carcasses, their choice cuts.

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Mr Lamb the butcher regards the service he provides his customers as a window onto the infinite. He is a hierophant, his mundane work a ritual of cutting, weighing, wrapping, giving.

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Every Good Friday, Mr Lamb the butcher has himself strung up in the window of his shop, atop a mound of eyes.

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Mr Lamb the butcher makes flamboyant window displays, in which bald chimeras made from bits of beef, chicken and pork mate, fight or deliver speeches with grandiloquent gestures.

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Mr Lamb the butcher has a penchant for Debussy. He often becomes glassy-eyed as he hacks meat into retail-ready portions to the melodies of La mer.

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Once, Mr Lamb the butcher defenestrated a customer who had made a puerile remark about the phallic appearance of a sausage he had just been sold.

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Every evening, after work, Mr Lamb the butcher sits alone at his little kitchen table and wolfs down a thick stew of offcuts and offal.

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