On this occasion, however, our hero had caught the scent of roast chicken as he approached the house. Not a morsel of food had passed his lips in two whole days. He drank water from the streams that were not uncommon in this land, and this gave him the strength to put one foot in front of the other. His body was accustomed to a minimum of sustinence and processed whatever nourishment it received in a thorough and efficient fashion. Not an iota of energy was wasted. His shuffling gait was the result of years of personal energy conservation research. His neck and head drooped like a tired tulip, the thrusting impertinence of its trumpet long gone. His hands dangled useless. Grubby. The dirt under chipped and yellowed nails never to be shifted. It was as much a part of him as his heart.

Like the smell of his mouth, the filth which tanned his skin was an everyday companion and as such almost totally unnoticed. Perhaps there had been a time when he was aware of how he looked and how he repulsed the people to whom he would previously have tipped his hat. It was impossible to hold a conversation with anyone other than yourself. Who could bear to look upon such a face, into such eyes, the intensity of their gaze magnified by the stink of your breath? Having resigned himself to the fact that he had no-one to talk to except himself he had willingly allowed the rags he wore become ever-more soiled. Any piece of cloth or canvas he came across was incorporated into a costume that was designed on a 'work in progress' basis by the fates. It sometimes took days to work out how a new piece of fabric could be joined with its brothers and sisters by string or twig. The only thing he owned and carried with him was a large 6 inch blade knife. Otherwise his personal belongings hung from his gaunt frame and defied description as clothing.