Twenty six. Three less than the last time he’d counted and that infernal orchestra were still refusing to pack it in. If they didn’t stop interrupting his counting then he’d be sending them overboard to find his missing chairs.
He jolted forward, scrabbling upwards as the ship lurched again and the deck continued to tilt at a most infuriating angle.
The deckchairs began to slide downwards, clattering into each other as they headed for the railings.
He’d taken the nose from an artist back during the renaissance, but if he was honest he couldn’t remember if it had been the artist’s nose or one from a painting. Little details like that tended to get somewhat muddled.
He took his seat, the same one he’d taken since long before his nose or even the ear-lobes from that Celtic King. It was his amphitheatre and after a few hundred years of trial and error he’d found the perfect spot.
Now he just had to wait for the tourists to arrive and the show to begin.