this weekend I climbed a sycamore tree.

Hanging like a monkey from a great greengrey limb I am immersed in the sounds of leaves rustling in the wind. I have become so domesticated that I have forgotten how loudly leaves rustle when there are ten million of them all doing it at once.

i get up on top of the horizontal branch. I stand cautiously and wobble. Then I begin to creep along. I fantasise that I am pantherlike. It is good. The branch is patient. Every part of my being is involved in this upward shuffle.

Suddenly I catch an unmistakeable whiff on the breeze.

I’ve got dogshit on my trainer. Fuck! It’s all over the branch. Where did that fucking shit come from? Is it on Felix as well? My panther moment has been betrayed. I’m freaking out; is it on my hands? How am I going to get everything clean, out in the woods?

I get down, swearing.

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