24. Fretting

His morning wakings followed on, each one more bizarre than the previous. Little Hairy-Harry had lost his bearings entirely. The more time passed, the hotter under the collar he got. Then the colder. He dozed all day, said bugger it to everything, held slanging matches with his neighbours, and let time spool by in front of the telly. In essence, he needed help. Most particularly, the help of friends.

And of potato crisps...

‘Ah, a beer would wash down well...’

But no, no, and no. Little Hairy-Harry was well-bred and well-mannered and that should be the end of that. Except that… his personal hygiene left a lot to be desired.

‘I don’t give a damn. Nobody knows me. Nobody can see me in my hideout. I’m all alone, minding my bloody fucking business, and nobody is going to bugger around with me.’

He inhaled deeply from his armpits. Then struck by a sudden dizzy spell, considered that perhaps it was time to take a shower.

‘I. Stink.’

A certain manly pride took possession of his little hairless torso.

‘Yup. Fwoah. I really honk.’