Carnivorous Cow sighed deeply and looked across at Gramsci. She had noticed a certain stiffness to his joints this time - she was certain that on her last visit arachnoid limbs had been more flexible, his responses swifter, his eyes more twinkly. She was horribly afraid that it was her own inevitable ageing she was seeing reflected in his increasing frailty, and her denial bit deeply.
It had been an interesting pilgrimage back to the pastures of her youth. With the passing of The Great Cowherd, and the looming 20th anniversary of Freedom, the country itself seemed to be passing from a period of excusable juvenile delinquency into an age of young adulthood where greater sobriety and responsibility would be expected. And with it, she felt, her own need to transition to a more considered space may be required. It was a truly terrifying prospect.
And so she and the Butler passed an engaging and delicious afternoon with Tony and Beyond Trauma, skipping through long dormant neural connections and forging new ones, and summarising without hesitation, repetition or deviation their current positionings and passions in four minutes. It was at once immediate and eternal, and the Cow experienced the poignancy of the great ball of wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey stuff as the sun dappled through the itchy-ball trees. So much had happened, and there they sat, posing for "three-under-a-tree" photos, musing on whether Tony smelt like a fruit bat or a cricket bat.
The Cow reached for another frozen cocktail and turned to Gramsci. "So," she asked, "would you have the discipline to become a vegan?" Gramsci rolled his eight eyes, and the Cow sighed again. "I wonder," she mused, "if, like fruit bats, cricket bats are also plagued by fleas?"