‘It’s donkery.’
‘It isn’t, though.’ He’s like a dog with a bone.
I stare at Tom and think, hard. ‘Maybe you’re right. Or wrong.’
‘I’m right. It’s donkey.’
‘I’ve known that word for a really long time, like thirty years.’ I’m really confused now. ‘Donkey or donkery?’
‘Donkey,’ confirms the black-clad man who’s helping with all the games.
‘Well! I’m very surprised by that. Why did I get that wrong?’
‘You’ve had too much to drink,’ Tom says. ‘That’s why.’
‘No, no, no. You’ve had more than me. Anyway, shut up. I need to get blindfolded and pin that donkery.’
I don’t like the blindfold because it makes me feel sick but when I take it off it’s worth having worn it: my tail is inexactlythe right place.
‘Look at that,’ I crow. ‘I win again.’
‘You’ve pinned it to its face,’ Tom says.
Oh. I look more closely. I think he might be right.
‘Stupid game anyway,’ I say. ‘Let’s go for our walk.’
Tom decides that we should drink a lot of water before we go. He thinks we should have two pints each, which takes quite a long time to drink. Eventually, though, we’ve finished our second pints and we’re on our way to the garden.
‘It’s really nice out here,’ I say. ‘I like it.’ I wave my arm around and nearly fall over. ‘My arm’s really heavy,’ I explain.
‘Hold mine,’ Tom suggests.
‘Good idea.’ Ilovehis arm. All of it. From sexy shoulder to handsome hands. If hands can be handsome. I feel like doing alliteration though. Eek. I freeze and look up at his profile. ‘Did I say that out loud?’ I ask.
‘Say what?’
Thank goodness for that.
‘Nothing,’ I say airily.
We stroll along and comment on the moon and stars. (The sky is very clear. It’s the countryside.)
‘I don’t really think hands can be handsome,’ Tom muses a minute or two later as we pass some big trees.
Oh dear.
Okay. I’m going to style it out. Just engage in reasonable conversation about it.
‘I think they can, actually,’ I say. Very reasonably and conversationally.
‘Oh, right. What about… elbows?’
‘Um. Extremely elegant?’
‘Nice. Legs?’
‘Loose? Long? Lithe.’ I’m pretty pleased withlithe. ‘Anyway, enough alliteration. Isn’t the moon nice?’
