'Does Santa wear a full wig, or is it a ring of white hair attached to his hat to make it look like a wig? What does he do for the rest of the year, what does he think about? Does he garden at all?' Dave Nark muttered as he paced back and forth in front of the row of composting toilets behind the yurts as the snow began to fall. He was wearing khaki-coloured fingerless gloves and biting his nails.
'I can't go on like this,' he thought. 'What am I doing with my life? I'm 59 years old and the world has passed me by. Or is it the other way round? Am I really happy with Val? Or am I just making do - settling, as they say. I think I know the answer to that one. Oh dear. But it's not just that. The wildlife vids are just not cutting it. I'm losing my touch. Everyone's tik tokking now. My vids are old hat. Nobody's interested in otters. They want killer whales and breaching humpbacks. I have to up my game or move on. Basically that's it, isn't it. Up my game or move on. Move on into the fucking grave.'
'DAVE!' screeched Val from inside the healing yurt. 'Don't forget that you've kindling to chop, logs to bring in and the woodburner to clean when you've done digging out the toilets. And you can make me a cup of goji berry tea while you're at it. Properly mind! I want the water freshly boiled not flat and under-oxygenated like the last time. I'm worn out hot-stoning.'
Dave stopped pacing for a moment. He rubbed his long nose in a thoughtful manner and removed a drop of moisture with the back of his fingerless glove.
'DAVE!'
'DAVE ARE YOU LISTENING!'
'DAVE!'
And then he started pacing again, only in a different direction. Rather than pacing back and forth in front of the toilets (which he hadn't dug out by the way), he narrowed his eyes, adjusted his bobble hat and headed behind them - towards the moors...
next time - Dave has an odd encounter in a sweat lodge
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