The Llama Explains His Absence.

It might have been noted by regular visitors that my friend the llama has been absent from these pages for a long time. (Mel is particularly disappointed because she very much enjoys my conversations with the old boy. But llamas are their own people and I have no right to attempt any invocation of his company.) Well, today I saw him again.

I was standing at the entrance to the Harry Potter wood at the top of my lane, leaning on the gate and offering my respects to its inhabitants, when I saw him standing on the bend in the track which winds downhill. He was staring at me with an impassive impression, but said nothing.

‘Hello,’ I said, ‘why have you been away so long? Have you been busy or something?’

He continued to stare for a few seconds, and then spoke. Although he was some distance away I heard his voice as clearly as ever.

‘Since you ask two questions with the same breath, reason will be best served if I choose to answer the first one first. Not only would that be arithmetically appropriate, it would also render the second redundant.’

‘You haven’t changed much, have you?’ I replied.

‘’Why should I change? What purpose would it serve? And neither have you, come to that. You are rather given to the habit of asking redundant questions.’

I smiled and continued:

‘Very well, so what’s the answer to the first?

‘In order to answer the first I must correct a misapprehension. I have visited you several times, but you didn’t see me because your mind was filled with two considerations which are vexatious to my spirit.’

‘Which were?’

‘The brevity of the human lifespan and the question of whether anything matters.’

‘They seem perfectly reasonable considerations to me. Why do they trouble you?’

‘They don’t exactly trouble me in the sense that the word is habitually used; what they do is irritate my indefatigable capacity for reason.’

‘But why?’

‘“But why?” he asks. “Why?” Very well: to take the first one first. All physical creatures in your world have a lifespan. What does it matter whether that span is ten years, a hundred years, or a thousand years? There is birth; there is a period of life; and there is death. You’ve known that for as long as you’ve been here, so why should it be of any more of concern now than it was when you were young? As for whether anything matters, the human animal is not equipped to know whether anything matters. You have books; you have religious traditions; you have teachers (I believe you call them gurus in the hope that it will somehow endow them with infallible credibility); you have philosophers. You can choose to take any one of them and believe what they tell you if you like. But none of them actually know whether anything matters, and neither do you, so why waste time wondering about the answer to the unanswerable?’

‘Because human beings are made to wonder, I suppose.’

‘I know they are. I consider it to be one of their worst – or at least most pointless and therefore irrational – failings.’

‘I see. Oh well, reason was ever your strong suit. So have you given up on me now?’

‘Not necessarily. I’m watching and waiting to see whether you change. I might be back, or I might not. Goodbye.’

With that he turned and walked away, around the bend and out of sight. Wishing to say a few last words, I unfastened the gate and hurried after him. When I reached the point on the bend where he’d been standing, I looked down the long straight track running through the wood and he was nowhere to be seen. Llamas are much in the habit of doing that sort of thing.

Exercising Reason, Llama-Style.

My old friend, the llama, dropped in on me today. When I say ‘dropped in’, maybe I should be more specific. I was sitting at my computer savouring my new, grade 6, high roast coffee, when my peripheral vision was suddenly flooded by something which hadn’t been there a few seconds earlier. Being naturally intrigued, I turned to ascertain its identity.

‘Hello,’ said the llama.

‘Hello,’ I replied, striving to maintain an air of nonchalance as one does when confronted by llamas. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages. Where’ve you been?’

‘I haven’t been anywhere,’ replied the llama.

‘You must have been somewhere,’ I countered.

‘Why?’

‘Everybody has to be somewhere,’ I reasoned hopefully. (The application of reason is always accompanied by an unaccountable hint of uncertainty in such situations.) ‘You’re here now, aren’t you? Here is somewhere.’

‘Am I? Is it? On what basis do you hold to such a presumption?’

‘On the basis that I can see you and hear you and I’m talking back to you.’

‘And you trust the apparent evidence of your eyes, ears and brain, do you, in spite of your being aware that the organs to which you ascribe such unquestioned validity are far from infallible?’

‘Ah, I see; we’re back to that one. You’re suggesting, not for the first time, that you’re a figment of my imagination, a hallucination even.’

‘Well, shiver my Peruvian timbers all the way down to the tip of Tierra del Fuego,’ he said, feigning great surprise. ‘Am I really? That’s a lot of mountains you just covered.’

‘You know what?’ I offered, suddenly feeling emboldened. ‘Sometimes you don’t make sense.’

‘You may say that,’ he replied ruefully. ‘I wouldn’t care to comment.’

And then he cocked his head to one side and looked, apparently with some degree of purpose, into my eyes. I began to feel that I was once again sliding down that long, dark tunnel, the one down which I slithered after encountering the woman with amazingly dark eyes in Tesco. I shook myself and came back to the here and now, only to see him still staring at me but with an unmistakable look of smugness and mischief in his eyes.

‘On that note, I think I should leave,’ he said. ‘But before I go, there’s something I’m curious about.’

‘What’s that?’

‘That story you wrote, about the ghost called Mr Jonathon.’

‘You’ve read it?’

‘Of course. Would you rather I hadn’t?’

‘No. I just didn’t realise you paid me that much attention.’

‘You don’t realise very much most of the time, do you? I’ve noticed that about humans. Actually, I was going to ask you the question at the time, but that dark stuff hanging around you didn’t smell at all pleasant, so I changed my mind.’

‘I was depressed.’

‘I know. I sympathised.’

‘Did you?’

‘No, I decided to be facetious for a change. But anyway, the question I have is this: At the end of the story, the little girl – I don’t remember her name – says to her mother that Mr Jonathon instructs them to get a dog. Why?’

‘I don’t know really. It just came to me. I suppose I felt that it introduced a note of uncertainty – you know, left a question mark in the mind of the reader.’

‘I see, so one small part of your brain does work after all. That’s encouraging. I'll probably visit you again one fine day, or un-fine day, or whatever... Who can tell? Goodbye.’

And then he disappeared. What is one to make of it all?

The Llama's Christmas Carol.

I was rudely – and rather frighteningly – woken up early this morning by something hairy touching my forehead. I opened my eyes to see a large presence standing by the side of my bed in the darkness, but before I could even begin to react to the shock and horror a familiar voice said ‘hello.’ I recognised it at once. The llama. The bloody llama! I reached out my hand and turned on the bedside lamp which sits next to my old alarm clock.

‘Do you know what time it is?’ I asked, making no attempt to disguise my irritation.

‘Of course not. Why would I? Llamas have no use for time. It’s a curiously human obsession.’

‘Well I’m human and I do have use for it, and it’s four o’clock in the bloody morning so I’m curious to know what the hell you’re doing here.’

‘I’ve come to take you out.’

‘Out?’

‘Out.’

‘Where to?’

‘I seem to recall learning once that, in your language, ending a sentence on a preposition is frowned upon, and that the correct enquiry should be “whence?” Do people still say “whence?”’

‘No.’

‘I see, then I will accede to answering your grammatically dubious question. Out to a few of the places which you are in the habit of visiting.’

‘Such as?’

‘I’m not quite sure. I didn’t plan any of this, you see. Let’s see… erm… a couple of charity shops and a coffee shop should do.’

‘Not a trip to Peru, then?’

‘No.’

‘Just a couple of local shops?’

‘Yes.’

‘You do realise they’ll be closed at this hour of the night?’

‘That won’t be a problem. Time is an illusion to a llama.’

‘Really? How interesting. And what purpose will this little local jaunt serve?’

‘It will be an attempt to re-evaluate your somewhat jaded attitude to people in general and Christmas in particular.’

‘Isn’t that a bit presumptuous of you?’

‘Presumptuous, yes. But it’s none of my doing.’

‘So whose doing is it?’

‘Never mind. Are you ready?’

‘Hang on a minute. No, I’m not ready. Suppose I refuse?’

‘You won’t refuse.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I know you.’

‘Go on.’

‘Firstly, because you’re intrigued. And secondly, because my will is stronger than yours.’

And then he looked at me in a way which reminded me of the woman with amazingly dark eyes who introduced us all those years ago.

‘Very well,’ I said. ‘I expect you’re right. So how do we go about it? Do I ride on your back?’

‘Good heavens, no. How very antediluvian.’

‘So how, then?’

‘You place your right hand behind my left ear and grip it gently.’

I did as I was asked, and suddenly the scene brightened. We were standing in one of the charity shops which I frequent, and there was a Christmas song playing on the PA.

‘I wonder that poor woman doesn’t get heartily tired of hearing this sort of thing all day,’ I remarked.

‘Don’t you like it?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t you find it seasonal?’

‘Oh, it’s seasonal all right. That’s the problem. It’s the words I can’t stand.’

‘What’s wrong with them?’

‘Oh, come on.  Mary’s boy child Jesus Christ was born on Christmas Day? How imbecilic can you get?’

‘Hmm… I thought a little Christmas music might kindle a spark of Christmas spirit. Never mind. Let’s try another one.’

The scene changed to another of my charity shop haunts. A man was entering the shop just as we arrived, at which point another man came skipping along with a jolly ‘morning’ on his lips. He didn’t merely say it, though; he sang it, approximately at an interval of a falling 3^rd I would say. ‘MOR-ning.’

‘Hateful,’ I remarked under my breath.

‘Hateful?’ queried the llama.

‘Hateful. It sounds contrived, artificially jolly, pretentiously over-projected. You name it, it sounds it. Hateful.’

‘Maybe he’s happy. Maybe he’s filled with the spirit of generosity and goodwill to which the season is supposedly in thrall.’

‘Maybe he’s a prat.’

‘Oh dear, oh dear. I’m not all sure this is working quite as intended. We’ll try one more.’

We found ourselves standing in the counter queue at my favourite coffee shop. There was a middle aged woman standing in front of us, and she kept looking around as though she was expecting company. A second woman soon appeared and was soundly hugged. And then a man arrived, and he was treated to an almighty hug too.

‘I think we’re standing dangerously close,’ I said to the llama. ‘She might hug me next.’

‘Hardly likely, dear boy. She can’t see you.’

‘Can’t she? Oh, good.’

‘Would it be such an imposition if she did?’

‘What? Being swamped by a great lump of unattractive woman?  Dead right it’d be an imposition.’

The llama looked at me again, but his expression had changed. No command this time, just resignation.

‘I think it’s time to go,’ he said. ‘Take hold of my ear again.’

We were back in my bedroom. The clock still showed 4.

‘So are you disappointed by my lack of redemption?’ I asked him.

‘Disappointed? Not at all. I have no personal interest in the matter. We llamas are not in the habit of cultivating the Christmas spirit or celebrating the season. We’re far too advanced for that sort of thing.’

‘And what about my attitude to people?’

‘That doesn’t concern me either. People are, indeed, a rather strange set of beings. Most of them are probably best avoided.’

‘So please tell me why you did all this?’

‘They asked me to make the attempt.’

‘They? Who are “they?”’

‘That would take a lot of explaining. Another time, perhaps. Compliments of the season to you - I think that’s the right expression - and goodnight.’

‘It is, and probably the least onerous version of several. And the same to you.’

‘Mmm.’

And then he shrank in an instant to a tiny speck of light and flew through the window without breaking the glass. I’ve never seen a llama do that before. Getting back to sleep wasn’t easy.

*  *  *

And on a related note, I just watched the second episode of the BBC’s new adaptation of A Christmas Carol. I mentioned it a few days ago here.

Let me say that just occasionally – usually at intervals of several years – the TV offers something of great moment, something special which is fit to join the pantheon of Outstanding Television Events. With two episodes of three now concluded, this is the latest addition to that list. The writer has taken the body of the original story, stripped away the flesh apart from a few fragments at the core of the plot, and then re-arranged the bones into something dark, powerful and intelligent. He’s even managed to include a few references to modern issues, and done so seamlessly.

I could embark on an expanded critique, but what would be the point? Suffice it to say that in my opinion it’s quite magnificent. The only way to settle on agreement or disagreement would be to watch it.

Reality and the Llama from Porlock.

Another Halloween. Another one of those annual markers which remind you that you’ve used up another year of your life and make you wonder whether you did anything worthwhile with it. In my case, I can’t think of anything.

What I did think of this afternoon was the oft pondered question: ‘Is any of this stuff we call “reality” actually real?’ Well, reality is a surprisingly difficult thing to tie down once you get beyond of course it’s real. I just hit my thumb with a hammer and it hurt.

You see? Already we’re into the combination of the material and the perceptual. The solid and the abstract. Cause and effect insisting that they belong together when maybe they don’t.

And then it made a strange kind of sense that, since perception is the whole of the life experience, and since everything that is meaningful ultimately distils to the abstract, maybe the material reality which we see as the bedrock of being is actually a construct of our collective consciousness. Only we’re not conditioned to that view and so it never occurs to us. And it’s an odd irony that the brain, which is what we use to think (or think we do), is part of that construct and therefore an illusion in itself.

But my train of thought was interrupted by a knock on the door. I opened it and my old friend the llama was standing there again.

‘Trick or treat,’ he said.

This put me on the back foot a little. ‘Trick or treat’ is not the sort of expression one normally associates with llamas.

‘Did you say “trick or treat”?’ I asked him.

‘Did it sound like “trick or treat”?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then it probably was.’

‘But why did you say it?’

‘Why shouldn’t I say it?’

‘Well, I don’t really know. It isn’t the sort of thing I’d expect you to say. And I wouldn’t know what sort of thing a llama regards as a treat, so I wouldn’t know what to give you.’

‘Why would you feel constrained to give me something?’

‘Because that’s what “trick or treat” means.’

‘What?’

‘It means “give me a treat or I’ll play a trick on you.” It’s a Halloween tradition, and treats are usually in the form of something like a Mars Bar. You don’t strike me as the Mars Bar type.’

‘Ah, that explains it. Interesting.’

‘Sorry, but it doesn’t explain why you said it.’

‘I heard two little humans say it to a man in one of the houses at the bottom of the lane, so I thought I’d say it to you and see what your reaction would be. And do you realise that this is the first time in our long association that I’ve learned something from you. That in itself is interesting. Goodbye.’

And then off he trotted without another word. And I never did get back to my musing on whether reality is really real.

A Mushroom Tale.

There was a knock at my door earlier. I looked at the clock and saw that it was 9pm. Hardly anybody ever knocks on my door at any time, and nobody ever knocks on my door at 9pm. I wondered whether it might be some local kids practicing for Halloween and opened the door tentatively. My old friend the llama was standing there large as life, his head cocked slightly to one side as is his wont.

‘Do you have any mushrooms?’ he asked without offering any sort of preliminary greeting.

‘Mushrooms?’

‘Mushrooms,’ he repeated.

‘I do actually. Why, do you want some?’

‘Certainly not. Can’t stand the horrid little things.’

‘So why did you come all this way to ask whether I have any?’

‘I didn’t come all this way, as you put it. I was in the vicinity and it occurred to me to wonder whether you have any mushrooms.’

‘Why would it occur to you to wonder such a thing if you don’t want any?’

‘Questions come and questions go, dear boy. Why would I waste my time deliberating over the value or origin of them?’

‘But that’s absurd.’

‘Maybe so, but it’s no more absurd than asking what time it is, or whether the train to Plymouth stops at Bristol on the way.’

‘That’s rubbish. Those questions are bound up with some form of rationale. They’re part of a wider issue to which they are pertinent.’

‘Oh dear, oh dear; what a lot you do have to learn about the nature of reality,’ he said with a sad and dismissive air. And then he turned and walked away, as he always does.

The night was cold and so I shut the door. There’s never any point in trying to follow a llama. It seemed natural in the circumstances to make a cup of tea, although I have no idea why.

*  *  *

Ten minutes later there was another knock on my door. I opened it again to find a young Chinese woman standing on the doorstep. I deduced with remarkable speed - not to mention alacrity - that it was the priestess come all the way from Stockholm to visit me. I've never met the priestess, but being possessed of all gentlemanly virtues I invited her in.

‘Would you like a mushroom?’ I asked.

‘A mushroom?’

‘A mushroom,’ I repeated.

‘You mean a magic mushroom?’

‘No, an ordinary mushroom.’

‘Why on earth would I want an ordinary mushroom?’

‘Yes or no?’

Have you ever seen a young Chinese woman frown deeply and cock her head to one side in the manner of a llama?

A Kind of Logic.

I watched the penultimate episode of Merlin tonight. There was a point at which the poor lad, having been stripped of his magical powers by the dastardly Morgana, is trapped in a deep, dark cave with no means of escape. Suddenly, a hole appears in the roof. You might find this hard to believe, but at that very moment I became aware of something large and hairy peering over my shoulder. It was my old friend, the llama.

‘Where did that hole come from?’ I asked him.

What hole?

‘That hole in the roof.’

There is no hole.

‘Yes there is. I can see it, there.’

Dear boy, said the llama, affecting that manner with which he loves to irritate me.  The very definition of a hole is a place where there is nothing. Ergo, it can’t be there, since how can nothing ever be anywhere?

‘Your logic is very strange.’

It’s llama logic. You wouldn’t understand.

I turned to look at the screen again to reassure myself that where there was logically nothing, there was, in fact, a hole. When I turned back to remonstrate further with the llama, there was nothing to see.

On Spring and Prematurity.

I walked up through the village today (it’s the shortest route to the fairy glen.) Everything was growing and greening and blooming prematurely.

The little blue tits which nest in the nest box at the back of my house were building a nest prematurely.

Tonight’s episode of House ended prematurely. Why was cutthroat bitch (aka Amber) on the bus with House when it crashed? Wilson is so panic-stricken he can’t articulate his words properly. (I’ve been there – once. That’s exactly how it is.) How the hell could they roll the credits while we’re dangling on a frayed rope above the alligator pit and waiting for the guy in the wheelchair to find and fetch a ladder? How can I know that the vicissitudes of life won’t find some way of preventing me from watching the next episode? Damn. I need a drink.

(Oh, I’ve got a drink. OK.)

*  *  *

My old friend the llama was watching me attentively when I woke up this morning. I asked him ‘where the hell did you spring from?’ He drew his head back and frowned. ‘Spring?’ he said. ‘Spring? I resent the implication that llamas are in the habit of springing. The very concept of springing is one with which llamas are relatively unfamiliar, and the prospect of engaging in such an action far too remote to be worthy of consideration. Are you sure you’re quite well?’ And then I went back to sleep.

*  *  *

Did you know that I’m quite a lot madder than I probably appear on this blog? The blog is my grounding mechanism when the weather smiles a false smile and a state of prematurity weaves cobwebs in the mind.

Lacking Sympathy.

My friend the llama came sauntering up the garden path today while I was admiring the blossom on the plumb tree.

‘Where have you been?’ he asked.

‘Where have I been?’ I queried.

‘Yes. Where have you been? I made the effort to visit you some weeks ago and my reward - if you'll excuse the irony in the expression - was to find you conspicuous by your absence. So where have you been?’

‘Oh, right. That must have been when I was in hospital.’

‘In hospital?’

‘Yes.’

‘In hospital... mmm... Why do humans always have to be so vague in their manner of communication? Saying “I was in hospital” is like saying “I was in a shop.” To what end were you in hospital? Were you painting the walls? Checking the beds for metal fatigue? Peddling your autobiography? Or could it have been something else entirely?’

‘I was having an operation.’

‘I see. You were having an operation. Would you care to expand? What, precisely, was the purpose of this operation?’

‘I was having a kidney removed.’

‘Oh, really? Why? Had you grown to dislike it?’

‘Of course I hadn't. It was diseased.’

‘Ah, now I’m getting the picture. You were having a diseased kidney removed. The muddy water of worthless generality is clearing at last. Are you fully recovered now?’

‘Hardly. It’s going to be a long process.’

‘How long?’

‘They said six to twelve months.’

‘Oh my word, that is a long process. That being the case I see little point in continuing this conversation. I don’t have the time. Goodbye.’

‘Aren’t you going to wish me well?’

‘Would it make a difference?’

‘Well, no, I don’t suppose so.’

‘In which case I see no point whatsoever in so doing. What became of your errant kidney, by the way?’

‘I’ve no idea. They don’t tell you that.’

‘See what I mean? Vague as ever. Goodbye.’

And then he walked sedately down the lane in the direction of the pub, grabbing a bunch of cow parsley leaves on the way and munching them with a strange humming sound. I didn’t detect any actual tune.

On Llamas and Inductive Reasoning.

I was clearing one of the road drains today when my old friend the llama came trotting up looking mightily amused.

‘You look amused,’ I said.

‘You state the obvious,’ he replied.

I chose not to be offended since a llama's intention is not always quite what it seems, but asked instead what he found so funny.

‘I just proved how illogical humans are,’ he answered smugly.

‘Oh yes, and how did you do that?’

‘I snatched a woman’s hat off her head and flung it along the road.’

‘Why was that funny?’

‘That wasn’t funny. What was funny was her reaction.’

‘Which was?’

‘She looked confused for a moment, and then said to the male companion with whom she was walking: “Oh. The wind must have blown my hat off.” “I didn’t feel any wind,” replied the male of the species. “Well, what else could it have been?” she insisted, still affecting that odd countenance which humans adopt when they lack the appropriate degree of certainty. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “I suppose there must have been a sudden gust.” See what I mean? Illogical.’

‘It wasn’t illogical at all,’ I argued, feeling a trifle defensive towards my own species for a change. ‘Hats don’t just fly off your head under their own power, do they? They naturally assumed it was the wind because that was the only rational explanation.’

‘Ah, but it wasn’t though, was it?’

‘Wasn’t what?’

‘The only rational explanation. I remember reading a book once about a detective called Shylock something-or-other…’

‘You mean Sherlock Holmes.’

‘Do I? Well, whatever. The bit I particularly remember was where he said: “When you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable – must be the truth.” Or words to that effect. Now, had the woman said “My hat just flew off my head and there’s no wind, therefore I conclude that an invisible llama is playing tricks on me,” I should have had much more faith in her powers of reason and those of your species generally. What are you doing, by the way?’

‘Clearing the dead leaves and silt off this grid.’

‘Why?’

‘So the water will go down it instead of running along the road like a river in the wrong place.’

‘Hmm. Good idea. Do the other humans in this locality value your efforts?’

'Probably not.'

'My point precisely.'

And then he trotted off up the road whistling. Did you know that llamas can whistle? No, neither did I.

Renewing an Acquintance.

I bumped into an old friend today. Remember the llama, the one I met after my encounter with the woman with amazingly dark eyes in Tesco? I went out into the garden earlier and there he was, peering into the branches of my apple tree.

‘Hello,’ I said, ‘it’s been a while since I saw you.’

‘And how does that compare with a minute?’ he answered without turning to look at me.

‘How does what compare with a minute?’

‘A while. How long is a while?’

‘It’s just an expression. It means I haven’t seen you for a long time.’

‘Vagueness, vagueness, always vagueness. You humans are a strange breed.’

‘I’d say that’s a matter of opinion, actually. What are you looking for anyway?’

‘Would you mind if I answered the question with a question?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘What sort of tree is this?’

‘An apple tree.’

‘An apple tree. I thought as much. And since llamas are not renowned for their interest in arboreal structure, the perching mechanism of birds, or the foraging habits of tree-borne insects, would you not think it reasonable to presume that a llama looking into the branches of an apple tree should be looking for apples? Do you have any anchovies, by the way?’

'Anchovies?'

'Little fish, rather salty.'

‘You haven’t changed much, have you?’

‘Why should I change? How should I change? What benefit would I gain from changing? I’m a llama, pure and simple.’

‘A llama, right, just any old simple llama. So how did you get here? Oh, I forgot; I think I asked you that once before. You just appear anywhere you want to appear, is that right?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Well you didn’t walk up the lane, did you, chatting about the state of the weather to the local horses?’

‘I did actually – walk up the lane, that is. Only I didn’t talk to any horses because I don’t speak their language.’

‘Did anybody see you?

‘Of course not. The only person who can see me is you.’

‘Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. You’re a hallucination, right? A figment of my disordered mind?’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘So you’re real?’

‘Yes.’

‘How can that be?’

‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘Try me.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

At that point the llama finally turned his face to look at me. He thrust his nose close to mine and said:

‘Look into my eyes and tell me what you see.’

I had no idea what I was supposed to be looking for but I looked anyway, long and hard.

‘Well, what do you see?’

‘I see the sky reflected in them.’

‘Nothing more?

‘No.’

‘That’s why you wouldn’t understand. Are you sure you have no anchovies?’

‘Quite sure. I’m vegetarian.’

And then he disappeared and I had toasted cheese and sweet pickle for lunch. I expect the fishy taste was all a matter of auto-suggestion, whatever that might be.

An Early Visitor.

He’s back! I woke up this morning to the sight of an inquisitive hairy face only inches from mine, head cocked a little to one side with ears that might be imaginatively described as ‘akimbo.’

It was a bit of a shock, I can tell you, but once my heart had slowed to somewhere near normal speed I felt irritated.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I asked.

‘Why shouldn’t I be here?’ replied the llama.

‘Because it’s my bedroom.’

‘So?’

‘So bedrooms are private. You don’t just go walking into them without being invited.’

‘You don’t?’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’

There was silence for a few minutes while he turned his head this way and that, taking everything in and grunting quietly now and then. He seemed particularly interested in the smell of the wallpaper.

‘And anyway,’ he continued, ‘I didn’t walk in here.’

‘So how did you get in?’

‘How does anybody do anything? I just did.’

And then he walked over to the chest of drawers on the far side.

‘What’s that?’ he asked.

‘What’s what?’

‘That hairy thing, there.’

‘A teddy bear.’

‘Teddy bear?’

‘Yes, teddy bear.’

‘Does it talk?’

‘It isn’t an “it,” it’s a “he.” His name is Berlioz and he’s a friend of mine. And no, he doesn’t talk exactly, but he does communicate when he feels so inclined by means of facial expressions.’

The llama said something in a low voice which I didn’t quite catch. It sounded like ‘oh dear,’ but the acoustics can be deceptive in my bedroom.

‘Do you have any eucalyptus leaves?’ he asked eventually.

‘What?’

‘Eucalyptus leaves. Do you have any?’

‘Of course I don’t have any eucalyptus leaves. What the hell would I want with eucalyptus leaves?’

‘They go very well with dolcelatte cheese.’

‘Do they?

‘They do. And some Australian ones have microscopic fragments of gold in them.’

‘You’re having me on.’

‘No, I’m not. They come from trees that grow above gold seams, and tiny bits of gold get drawn up with the water. And it’s an interesting fact that gold is toxic to eucalyptus trees, so they push the metal out to the leaves in order to get rid of it when the leaves fall. Eucalyptus trees are a lot smarter than people think.’

‘Now you’re really having me on.’

‘No, I’m not. And their leaves taste excellent accompanied by chocolate mousse.’

‘You said dolcellatte cheese.’

‘That too. Goodbye.’

At that he emulated the Cheshire Cat by disappearing slowly inwards from the extremities. His right ear was the last bit to go. It flicked up and down three times before fading. It looked like a wave, but I suspect it meant ‘I’ll be back.’

Noting an Unwelcome Influence.

Dreaming is normal. Hallucinating is considered abnormal, but at least it happens (or so they tell me.) What, in my experience, is a little odd is dreaming about having hallucinations, especially when you know in the dream that hallucinations is what they are but they’re freaking you out anyway.

Such is what happened to me when I fell asleep by the fire this evening, and it took about ten minutes for the collywobbles to wear off after I woke up. I felt uneasy about going upstairs because it would have meant crossing that bit of the floor where the beetle-like insects had suddenly multiplied and leapt up to settle on my hands. And I feared – irrationally, as I well knew – that one of the four kids who had invaded my house and rushed upstairs into my bedroom might still be there, sitting in the corner of the darkened room looking back at me.

I think this strange phenomenon might be attributed to the wind moaning outside, or the fact that the girl in the chip shop earlier had put too much salt on my chips, or maybe it was due to having met that llama again, the one I encountered in Peru when the woman with the amazingly dark eyes sent me there (which I reported in a post a few weeks ago.)

I was sitting on a bench eating the aforementioned chips when a voice close to my ear said ‘Hello again.’ I turned to see the llama, its head lowered so that its face was on a level with mine and its eyes searching my own for signs of intelligent life.

‘Oh, hello,’ I said. ‘How odd to see you again, and such a long way from Peru.’

‘Indeed,’ replied the llama in that non-committal tone so typical of them.

‘Who are you?’ I continued. ‘Do you have a name?’

The llama inclined its head slightly and turned its eyes skyward.

‘Who am I?’ it mused. ‘Do I have a name? Hmm…’

And then it inclined its head the other way and turned its eyes in the opposite direction.

‘I suppose the more searching question would have to be “What am I? Would it? I rather think so. ”

And then it looked me steadily in the eye again and asked:

‘What do you think?’

‘Oh, I know what you are,’ I said, gaining in confidence. ‘You’re a llama.’

‘Who says so?’

‘It’s common knowledge.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I see. By “common knowledge” I assume you mean that, far from being an unqualified presumption exercised by the majority, it is, in fact, taken as axiomatic by just about everybody.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well if it is, indeed, common knowledge, and I am, therefore, a llama, I would have to say: “Not to llamas it isn’t.” Good morning.’

And with that dismissive assertion it wandered off down the High Street, occasionally stopping to sniff the heads of passers by and wrinkling its nose in disgust.

And do you know what was really odd? Throughout the whole conversation, the people walking past were looking strangely at me, not the llama.

So be warned: Avoid llamas. Meeting the more enigmatic variety can have a disturbing effect on your state of mind for hours afterwards.

Amazingly Dark.

I saw a woman in a shop the other day who had amazingly dark eyes: no colour at all, just black and white. I stared at her several times, but stopped when a scenario began to unfold:

She turns and stares back at me.

‘What?’ she asks in that confrontational way that only women with amazingly dark eyes do well.

‘Please excuse me. It’s just that you have amazingly dark eyes and they’re quite hypnotic.’

‘Would you believe me if I said I’m not human?’

‘I wouldn’t disbelieve you; I’d keep an open mind. It’s a trait I inherited from my mother.’

And then she smiles a kind of smile I’ve never seen before, and everything inside my skin turns to crushed ice. The world goes amazingly dark.

I wake up lying next to a mountain road and see a llama looking down at me with its head turned quizzically to one side. I can’t resist the absurd question:

‘Where am I?’

‘Peru,’ answers the llama in perfect RP.

‘You speak English?’

‘Fluently, and not inelegantly, as you might have noticed.’

‘That’s really strange. Where did you learn?’

‘A woman with amazingly dark eyes taught me.’

‘What a coincidence. Now it’s really, really strange.’

‘Want to see something stranger?’

‘I don’t know. Will it hurt?’

‘Probably not. Follow me.’

And so I follow the llama into a cave encrusted with something black which I assume to be bat droppings, although I've no idea why.

‘Sit on that stone,’ says the llama.

I do. I wait. Suddenly I hear a hollow swishing sound and am immediately nervous because swishing sounds don’t usually sound hollow. And then the ground in front of me opens up and the rock tips me into it. The world goes amazingly dark again.

I open my eyes (which are blue-grey, incidentally) and feel the air rushing past my ears. I realise that I’m sliding down some kind of smooth incline, but I can’t see a thing. Darkness reigns for a few panic-stricken seconds until I see a light growing ahead of me. It turns into the pale face of a woman with amazingly dark eyes, and it grows bigger and bigger. She opens her mouth and I’m faced with the horrifying realisation that I’m about to slide straight into it. Unsurprisingly, though with some degree of amazement, the world goes dark again.

I blink twice. I’m standing in a supermarket looking into the amazingly dark eyes of a woman whose head is turned quizzically to one side. She reminds me of a llama I once met.

‘Now do you believe I’m not human?’ she asks without moving either her lips or her head. It occurs to me that I’ve never seen her blink.

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Go away.’

I walk back to the car park eating the little bar of chocolate I just bought, which, by an amazing coincidence, is Peruvian.

I swear the first and last sentences are absolutely true.