The City of Culture

The tiny etched black hand rested on the bone china of the teacup like a duck sits in still water, beautifully.

“Nice isn’t it Mr Teague?” the rasps of Isaac McCormick intoned as the man leered over a portrait of a half-nude lady with red hair in front of the Eiffel Tower.

Eddie Teague rolled his eyes as he observed the teacup through a magnifying glass.

“I thought you wanted the cup valued, not a free peep show McCormick,” he said wearily.

“It’s the City of Culture year, Eddie. How often do we Hull folk get the chance to see art?” McCormick asked.

Every day in Ferens Art Gallery, you dolt, Eddie thought tersely.

“Not often I suppose,” he dryly mused aloud.