The butcher boy has small, delicate hands, they wield a cleaver with wonderful speed and dexterity. Just watch him get to work. First he strips me naked, then gently lowers me onto the cold slab of white marble. I lie down without a murmur, I lie down like a lamb, strictly for the purposes of demonstration, you understand. With a few easy strokes he separates the upper and lower limbs from the body, stacks them neatly to one side. With an elegant chop he cleaves the head from the neck, takes it up gently and places it upright at the head of the counter. From this vantage point I now have a much better view of the action. I see he has laid aside the cleaver and now has a knife in his hand. It darts in and out, in and out of the soft red and white body. Neat incisions expose the brightly gleaming purple organs yellow sheen of fat a bone or two. The butcher boy reaches into the open chest cavity and removes the heart, which, curiously, continues to beat. (Please remember this is only a demonstration.) He removes the lungs and liver. Now he flips me over and with two masterstrokes lightly separates the crumpled wings from the back. The wings are black in colour and very soft to the touch, he holds them for a moment, stroking them between thumb and forefinger. The butcher boy has enormous sad eyes but I can’t tell you what he is thinking. No animals were hurt.

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