There’s nothing positive or clever or rational about it, either, is there? I know that. I’m simply stewing in all this stuff – all these regrets. I really need to just try and … I dunno. Grow a set. Stop over-thinking. Stop making everything twice as complicated as it needs to be. Heroes don’t dither, do they? Do they? No. Heroes aren’t ditherers.

Uh. Sorry. Could you just feed me that line again, please?

‘Well that’s a very strange place to store your bulbs!’

Uh … Okay. Uh … I already did the smile, didn’t I? The hayseed’s goofy smile (my staple)? So how about I just repeat what he said back to him and then work the rest out from there?

‘A very strange place to store your bulbs. Yes. Very strange indeed. You must be Mr Huff. You were holed up in the bathroom when I first arrived. I’m Clifford. Clifford Bickerton. People call me Rusty.’

We shake hands.

‘Did you see the shark?’ Mr Huff asks, following me over to the front porch where I quickly re-fit the bulb. ‘Yup.’ I nod (Don’t give anything away, Clifford!).

‘Very convenient being so tall,’ Mr Huff observes.

‘Great for replacing bulbs,’ I affirm, ‘but not so great in other arenas. It’s hard to cram myself inside certain models of car.’

Mr Huff nods.

‘I sometimes break antique furniture.’

Mr Huff nods again.

‘And I play havoc with sofa and bed springs.’

Mr Huff considers this, scowling.

‘And everything’s dusty.’

Mr Huff looks quizzical.

‘I’ve noticed how women never dust above their own height. Up here I find everything’s dusty. It’s sad. I’ve often thought how there’s something deeply unloved about this altitude.’

Mr Huff’s eyes de-focus. I am boring him already.

‘I mean how are we going to dispose of it,’ he wonders, ‘with the bin stuck up on the Look Out?’

‘Follow me,’ I say, and walk around, through the little allotment (Ye Gods! He obviously hasn’t fed the badgers) to the front porch where the shark currently abides. I pick it up by the tail, take two steps forward and toss it over the cliff into the mess of rocky gorse below.

‘Bloody hell!’

Mr Huff is scandalized.

‘Something’s bound to eat it eventually.’ I shrug. ‘I’ll go and fetch you that bin now, eh?’

‘Will you climb up the little ladder?’ Mr Huff is intrigued. ‘It seemed a rather precarious arrangement when I went up there the other day.’

‘The ladder’s not a good option,’ I inform him. ‘The metal joists are corroded. It has a history of suddenly shearing off – falling out of the wall …’

Mr Huff blanches.

‘But there’s a series of thick planks hidden in some nearby bushes,’ I add, trying to keep the atmosphere positive, ‘and a quantity of corrugated iron. We generally construct a sloping walkway from the edge of the far end of the rock to the roof. It’s not especially stable …’

‘We?’ Mr Huff asks.

‘Local folk,’ I say, casually.