The next morning, Legless was sorting out logs for the fire with a thumping head, and Archie and DJ giving unwanted advice.
Having slept in the shed, they were up early, ravenous for coffee and food. They could hear Hilda in the camper van pacing about, full of beans, just as she was last night. While the others slurred more with each drink, becoming tactile and singsongy, Hilda had remained annoyingly sober, completely unaffected.
Hilda stared out of the window; an old man chopping wood was as foreign to her as a condom. The only thing she had seen a man do was shuffle.
She had seen many things on the BBC replays, but somehow, in the flesh, it was all so different—the noise, the smells, the people of all ages and all sizes, their accents, the swearing . . .
There was so much to learn.
