‘What?’ I yell.

‘The gate. Mr Huff. Who ran off. I sent him down here earlier to see if your dad had a spare hutch.’

‘Sorry? You … you actually think …?’ I scowl, trying to work out if I’ve heard him correctly. ‘You actually think it was … that Mr Huff dislocated my thumb?’ I yell.

He nods, fiercely. He gestures towards the hedge-cutter.

‘There aren’t any hedges!’ he yells.

‘Sorry?’

‘No hedges!’ he yells. ‘I can see. From up here. There aren’t any. Only fences. It’s a farce. This is all her. It’s just so …’

He gesticulates towards the fences, then towards his head in an uncharacteristic gesture of ‘has the world finally gone mad?’ or possibly, ‘Crazy, eh?’

‘… so embarrassing!’ he concludes. ‘I mean how stupid does she think we all are?’

As Clifford completes his little diatribe, he steps back slightly (recoiling with the sheer force of its delivery, I suppose) into a small heap of soil and almost loses his balance. I grab his arm to steady him (can’t have him collapsing backwards into that shallow hole!), but in the act of grabbing him (and him automatically steadying himself), he somehow manages to let go of the fork he’s holding (I could’ve sworn it was a spade – that he was holding a spade) and the thing drops from some height, straight down on to his foot and pierces his leather boot (his old cherry-coloured Doc Martens).

The hedge-cutter falls silent (in awe, almost – in shock) at that exact same instant. We both stare down at his foot, aghast.

‘Oh God,’ I murmur.

‘It’s okay,’ he insists, slightly tentative, not moving, still just looking. ‘It’s only a warning this time. I don’t think it’s actually … uh … actually … uh … pierced the flesh.’

He gingerly pulls the fork out. There are three clean holes in the leather. I fall to my knees and start untying his laces as he lowers himself down – white as a sheet – into a sitting position. We carefully remove the boot together. His socks are also pierced! But no blood, as yet. I gently remove the sock. We inspect the foot together. Nothing. Nope … Nothing! Not a scratch on his skin! The prongs have somehow contrived to fall in between his toes!

I am in awe. I am flabbergasted. ‘You were so lucky,’ I mutter. ‘That was just so … so … so incredibly lucky.’

And as the last ‘lucky’ is leaving my lips, a couple of swans come flapping across the line of back fences and swoop overhead (that extraordinary, gasping-pounding-wheezing sound the wings make! The huge, ungainly grandeur of the bird itself with its utterly un-aerodynamic-seeming, almost comically distended neck! So big! So white! So rhythmical! So close! The strangely holy-spotless-miraculousness of it all!) and a giant bird poo hits him on the head.

Whap!

Giant! A giant poo! Square on the head! As he quietly sits there! In one sock! With his bizarrely undamaged foot!