Jack's chicken noodles barely touch the sides. The last time he ate something hot or put-together was on the plane, and you know what they say about aeroplane food.

He picks up on absolutely no subtle hints from the other narration about the quality of his table manners.

"I like chicken," he says. With his mouth full.

The food's already taken care of the minor cuts on his chin, and done so with a lot more panache than any number of stale pep bars.