I get followed by straw through the house, like a slug does by slime. Camping, ugh, and drinking, ugh.
I am weary.
I bet you aren’t able eat ten slices of cake in a row, The Otter had wagered, flashing a shiny fifty pee pence.
I am able.
I push away cuddles. At any moment, I warn, I might poo myself or do sick, and I’m not sure I will be able to warn you which until I see it.
I am candid.
I bat away questions about my tent. Still there. Still in the field. Still leaking.
I am done with that.
I find myself being looked at intently by Mr Crow, who flaps ungraciously onto the lawn, as he will. I reach for the Graze box, select something rather plain, and toss it his way. He croaks cheerfully, ferrying food to wherever that place is.
I am depended on.