Bovril.

Attention to detail is the key to good still lives and I fell a bit short on this one. Despite filling the mug with  boiling water, there was no visible steam; a darker background with more intelligent lighting would have helped; a less fussy background would have been an improvement as well. Then again, I shouldn’t have washed the jar and left a stain on the label and should have been more careful with the arrangement. Not so much a case of making mistakes but of having a learning experience – according to the modern politically correct parlance.
 
For several years when the Bovril Johnston’s Café was in the village, it was a regular treat for me to have lunch there; nothing spectacular but Aimee did produce some very inventive varieties of soup to go with the delicious artisan bread that they sold. For special occasions they had enormous Danish pastries to go with the coffee. The remarkable thing was, that unlike the hotels that have taken over their trade,  there were always people that I knew there to chat to.
 
Moving on from the waffle, the walls were lined with reproduction posters from my youth, such as that on this jar, with a bull gazing at some Bovril and mourning for a lost friend or relative -  or perhaps a reference to the troops in the Great War needing more Bovril. It was also interesting that the walls of The Old Lady’s care home were lined with vintage posters, including the Bovril ones, that I remember from my youth; I’m sure that they were appreciated by the residents.