I find tiny corpses as I perambulate about the house: a wasp caught in a mesh curtain, a fly beside the cookbooks, a weevil lying on its back beside the toilet. Tis a season for thriving, and a season for dying. So far we’ve been to a wedding, two funerals, and a wake.

Why doesn't it want to be outside? In a riverside pub with rounded doors and nooks, Gus and I study a wasp as it reads the windowpane. It doesn’t know it’s inside, does it? Cuz it’s so small, the inside is as vast as the outside.

Later on, we get 99s from the corner store and walk our hangovers to the river, where the stink of silage came off the freshly mown land.

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