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.