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Henry found the head.

It was sticking up out of the top of the rubbish tip.

He only noticed it, because it shook its long, matted hair to get rid of a rotting clump of potato tops.

"Can I help you?" Henry was always willing to help.

"How?" grumbled the voice, which sounded to Henry rather as if it was gasping from a phlegm filled bag of guts.

"Has someone deliberately buried you?"

"Don't understand you! I'm not buried, if that's what you think! I'm only a head!"

"You mean there's no body down there... er, underneath all the rest of the stinking rubbish?"

"There's no body here... Can't really remember. NO, I'm fairly sure there's no body around here." The head rocked from side to side as if trying to find a pair of shoulders to sit on.

"How did you get here?" Henry asked, being ever curious.

"Don't remember?"

"I saw a play once. I think it had heads in rubbish, or actors hidden in rubbish bins. Thought it was pretty boring. They just talked."

"I can talk." the head replied quickly and obviously.

"Yes."

"That's not very meaningful." The head turned its rheumy eyes to regard Henry with an unblinking stare.

Henry clambered over the left side of the tip and squashed a messy pile of old fruit, buzzing with flies, trying to avoid the stare, and curious what the head looked like from behind. It jerked about, as if trying to follow him. Henry was no wiser. The matted hair just disappeared down from the crown of the head, all tangled in the muck it seemed to be resting on below. It kept jerking.

"Are you always so rude?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why have you gone round the back? I can't see you now."

"Is that better?" Henry slithered his way back round the decomposing mess.

"Yes."

Henry became aware of the stench his movements seemed to have released. "Are you ill?"

"Ill? ILL! What makes you think that? This is Heaven... isn't it? Do stir up a bit more of those vegetable peelings near your feet. They're rotting well and I need their stink."

"Have you always been here?"

"Of course. Every rubbish tip has its head. How could we exist without a head?"

"BUT..." Henry tried not to breath too deeply, "the stench round you is like concentrated gas from a million farts." Henry, being of a literary frame of mind, was quite pleased with the sudden simile that had popped into his mind.

"Of course... heavenly, isn't it!" The head's eyes rolled up and round, seemingly with delight. It began to chuckle throatily.

Henry stared, unable to move in his fascination; unable to leave.

The head's chuckling disppeared with a throaty, rich, open mouthed cough, revealing grotesque yellow teeth with black streaks, as it grinned inanely. "Are you staying awhile? I could do with someone to stir the tip up a bit. Been drying out a bit these last few days. Need to get a bit of water down below and a bit of air to get things working a bit quicker."

"What do you do all day?"

"Arrrh... I see you like to ask questions. That's good."

"It's polite to try and answer a question."

"Don't get uppity with me, boy!"

"Oh... sorry." Henry always tried to be polite.

"I think."

"Oh." Henry pondered.

"I think, therefore I am." The head began to chuckle again.

"Why haven't I noticed you before?"

"That's not a very intelligent question. I thought you were brighter than that. People only see what they want to see. How many people do you see round here actually looking at a pile of rotten, stinking Heaven like this?"

Henry felt forced to look round. His long garden looked reasonably tidy and the path wandered away under the willow tree by the pond up towards the house. "Er... no one here, but me."

"That proves something then, doesn't it?"

"Does it?" He paused. "What do you think about?"

"Rubbish... mainly, oh, and the meaning of life."

"What's that then?"

"The meaning of life? Well... now you're asking." The head closed its eyes for a moment.

Henry noticed there were what looked like tiny larvae crawling about in his pointy eyelashes, and shivered.

"The meaning of life..." the head continued, "is probably summed up by this beautiful tip."

"Yes?" Henry leaned forward in spite of the stench.

"Yes... the meaning of life is rubbish. That's what I think today."

Henry thought for a moment.

The head continued. "This tip is rubbish, life is rubbish, there's nothing more alive than this tip. It's teeming with wonderful bacteria and wriggling worms and glorious life. Umm... it's Heavenly. That's your 'tip for the day'. "

"Oh."

"Is that all you can say?" The head began to jerk vigorously and sank a bit deeper into its surrounding slime. "You might at least use that fork you're carrying and stir up this place up a bit."

The sky had clouded over considerably. It began to drizzle.

"I think I'd better get in before the rain starts." Henry prodded the heap around his now filthy gardening boots.

"That's right... run away before we really get started."

"Started?"

"Well, having had the decency to find me, befriend me, you're gonna leave me."

"You'll be here again... if I come back... I'll see you again?" Henry rejoined, as he was beginning to think he was hallucinating.

"If you want to. Bring a deckchair next time. We can have a nice long chat. 'Bout the meaning of life, if you like. It gets quite lonely, you know." Henry realised the surrounds of its eyes were dripping stuff like melting fat from a piece of bacon being grilled.

"Don't cry." He was always solicitous where unhappiness was concerned. "I'll come back."

"Thankyou." The head's eyes brightened a little. "Now piss off. I'm tired.

HENRY'S HEAD: Part the Second - a Head case, not a case of Head. home

Henry stared in disbelief. The responses to his advertisement for a Gardener had come to nothing. The newspaper wanted to know if he wanted the ad. to continue. 'Thought people were short of work? There's only one thing to do," he muttered under his breath. "I'll dig. I'll dig the vegetable patch and dig in that bloody compost heap. That's why those bloody potatoes were no good! No decent muck!" He stared across the patio down the length of the garden, as far as the willow tree.

Feeling brave, he slid open the door and set forth towards the living nightmare he thought might be waiting. His steps became more leaden as he approached the tree and he tried to see, beyond the ever-blooming, rampant Lavateria, with its masses of almost flourescent blue flowers, the top of the extensive rubbish heap. The fork and spade he carried seemed to grow heavier.

The sun began to show itself, pale and watery. He felt brighter as he realised, creeping closer, the heap was, well... just a heap... of rather smelly compost. He thought, 'Compost doesn't usually smell like that? Not as rancid and sour as that? Should be sort of sweeter. Didn't pong like that, last year.'

"Afternoon, matey."

Henry swung round quickly, his spade was left stuck seven inches into the ground at the edge of the vegetable patch.

"Where are you?" Strangely, when put to the test, Henry could be quite brave.

"You goin' blind or somethin'?" the gluggy, globby voice gravely questioned from the very earth beneath his feet.

"I can't see you."

"That's not surprisin'... you're virtually standing on me!"

Henry leapt into the air as if his feet were naked on hot bricks.

"Bloody Hell! Where?"

"Down 'ere..."

Henry peered at the ground, roughly where his feet had been. "Still can't see you? And why are you talking like that...?"

"You'd talk like this if yer gob was full of luvly mush... Since we, you an' me, were 'ere last, the worms 'ave started their move... yummy... they're beginnin' to get things back t'normal."

"Worms?"

"You know, Henry, you are uncommonly thick and stupid for a supposedly advanced bipedal organism. Even the birds have more wit than you. Haven't you heard the early worm catches the dead sparrow, before them ants?" The Head appeared like some kind of growing, expanding black mushroom, from the fringes of the heap.

Henry watched with horrified fascination as it thrust itself upwards with peculiar small jerks. The long hair was matted with soil like the roots of a potato plant, and spilt over the crinkled forehead, hiding the black jelly eyes trying to open in the brightening sunshine. With a final spit and a quick flash of those blackened teeth and muddied gums, the head seemd to focus its eyes on Henry.

"You look puzzled." It pronounced, gutterally and gravelly.

"Course I'm puzzled." Henry had spent his life being puzzled. Puzzled by himself. Puzzled by sex. Puzzled by the work ethic. Puzzled by his wife and kids. Puzzled why he should be on the earth at all, really.

"If you like puzzles you should be finding life very enjoyable indeed."

Henry thought of that for a moment. "You're taking the micky, aren't you?" He paused. This was crazy. People just didn't find Heads in their compost heaps. People didn't have conversations with disembodied heads covered in muck, not ones that spat and had rolling black eyes with ghastly yellow whites!. "Why aren't you in the middle of the heap. On the top? Like before?"

"I was eating, wasn't I. Anyway, you can only go halfway into a rubbish heap before you're coming out."

Henry stood back wondering if he was having something like an hallucination. Perhaps Mabel was feeding him drugs in his steak and kidney pud, which had been some time ago... weeks. Must be the salads.

"What's up? Look like you've seen a ghost."

"I've seen... can see... YOU!"

"You're a bit of a pessimist aren't you? Why assume you're going mad? Why assume you're drunk or drugged?""

"What do you mean? Can you read my mind?" Henry shivered as if someone had walked over his grave.

"A pessimist! The sort of bloke who blows out the candle to see how dark it is?"

Henry despaired.

"Well? Got nothing to say for yourself?" The Head shook itself as well as it could and small clods of earth were scattered. It peered more closely at Henry as if to bring him more into focus.

"Stop looking at me as if I'm some kind of insect?"

"Insects are a very good class of person."

"STOP!" Henry yelled.

"Eh?"

"Stop it. I feel I'm in a duel... of words. You keep duelling... words... with me. I am going crazy!"

"Steady on old fellow," the Head spoke for the first time in as kindly a manner as it could muster, through black teeth, gunge and earth dripping over its gross and blubbery lips. Then it said, seriously, with a kind of hideous grin, "Duelling is a sworded affair!"

Realising what the Head had said, Henry clasped his hands to his ears. "I DON'T want to hear anymore!"

"Better go and have something to eat. Salad again, is it?"

"Salad?"

"Well... Mabel brought down half a wilting lettuce and some onion skins this morning. I've been working them in nicely. And the day before it was the remains of peppers, green and red, and a load of wasted cucumber and Cos all tossed in virgin olive oil. Going off nicely it was, that lot. "

"Well... yes. She's into salads at the moment. Reckons they'll get my weight down." Henry suddenly realised: what if Mabel saw the Head? She'd have hysterics. Even a heart attack.

As if reading his mind, the Head went on, "She never sees me. Miserable old cow! You know, Henry, you need a good square meal, some steak and kidney pud."

"She can't cook to save her life... or mine! Salads are easy."

"Well... you know what..." said Head, "the Lord sends the food - the Devil sends the cooks. And in any case, Salad days mean Hungry nights!"

"I can't stand it!" Henry turned as if to run up the garden to the house.

" eh... 'ang on! Don't get all worried on me."

Henry looked at the Head, at the dark clod, the blob, of decaying, rancid, animated horror, shaking its matted locks at him.

"Why shouldn't I be worried?" Henry gasped, feeling sick as a particular nasty waft of fetid air found its way down into his lungs.

"If you worry, you die, so they say....... if you don't worry, you die. So why worry?"

"HELP! I can't stand it!" Henry left the spade sticking out of the ground, and the fork where it was, and ran as fast as his oddly skinny legs could carry him, back towards the house.

He thought he heard a loud chuckle, and some comment about "... S**T!", as he went.

"What's that, Mabel?" Henry asked over the cold coffee.

"It's a letter."

"I can see that! Who's it from?"

"Somebody did see the ad. for a Gardener." She looked up with her mournful doe eyes now focussing on Henry. "Do we really need one?"

"I'll say! That Hea.. that garden's sending me crackers. It's too big! For the two of us." He was thinking of the third! The bodiless blob. The Head.

"I'll invite her over then... we can at least see what she's like. Might be like that Charlie woman on the telly you seem to watch a lot... you know, the one who doesn't wear a bra and helps do up people's gardens."

(I must point out to US readers that 'Charlie' has become a star of British TV over the last three years or so, helping members of the public improve their gardens... she's a dab hand with water features!?)

Henry was horrified. A woman! In the garden... with a Head in a compost heap, gruesome enough to scare the living daylights out of a woman. Was that sexist? And did he want some woman telling him what to do with HIS garden. Women should know their place. Then he thought of Charlie. Perhaps he should be more politically correct?

"I'll give her a ring." Mabel was already preparing to phone. She saw the sudden shock on his face. She knew of Henry's fear of women and had always put down his peculiarly old-fashioned views to his mother!

That afternoon, she arrived, dressed to kill------ caterpillars, beetles and any other damn garden irritants! Wellington boots, muddied green, of course, muddy looking jeans and... a fabulous figure that would have put Charlie to shame! The check shirt was just right, thought Henry, instantly enamoured of such a ravishing sight, the more than a hint of bouncing cleavage fascinating him. Her hair was... well, wild. Yes, wild would be a good description. If full of earth and worms and rotting compost, that hair would be just like the Head's. The fact that that thought came into his mind, frightened him for a moment.

She spoke in a very winsome and educated manner with Mabel, while Henry drank in the vision of horticultural loveliness.

When she'd gone, Mabel said, "She knows more about gardening than you! And me! I think we'll ring her tonight and say she can do four hours a week."

Henry was in two minds, but then, Henry was often in two minds, three if you counted the Head. He had a vague notion that he ought to go see the Head, and tell it what was happening. Almost certainly, she'd want to dig-in the pile of compost, which was growing richer by the day. In an odd way, he had become quite attached to the Head. Perhaps he could find a quieter corner for him, or it. For some strange reason, he kept thinking of something he'd read the night before: "Never buy anything with a mouth." But then, he didn't buy the Head. It had just made its presence all too obvious.

Henry knew it was there... as sunset approached he could see the outline. It was as if some strange, shaggy creature was snuffling its way around the heap.

"Evening." said the Head, twisting around as if it knew someone was behind it.

"How do you do that?"

"What?"

"Move... er... around?"

"It's me neck.!!

"What?"

"Are you going deaf? NECK!" The final word was literally spat, with a shower of what looked like ants.

"But how?" persisted Henry. "How do you get your neck to make you move?"

"Dunno," said the Head. "I think everything decays..." he went on, "but not fast enough. These little blighters, these biters, these pesky ants! There's too many of 'em. Damned irritating to the eyes and ears! Into everything they are. The Head coughed throatily and a couple of dozen ants were projecting at something above the local speed limit almost at Henry's feet.

"I'm decaying? That's how you see me, isn't it?"

"Yup! You'd make a nice bit of compost with that belly of yours!"

"You know what?"

"What?"

"You're REVOLTING!"

"I didn't know you cared!" The Head cocked itself on one side. "Haven't been given such a compliment in ages. Mind you, I have to keep working at it. You know... a little make-up here and there. A good rummage through rotting leaves in the Autumn is generally good, but I do like a bit of household juicy fats.... that salad and virgin olive oil worked a treat on my complexion. It made the soil stick really well and the smears..."

"Oh, shut up!"

"My, my, we are getting bold, aren't we. First you are scared witless. Next you don't like a few words of wisdom. Now you're becoming a real pain... Are you threatening me in some way?" The Head's eyes narrowed slightly, from what Henry could see of them, as the dusk drew in.

He felt brave. Why should he take cheek from a Head? He could give it a good bash with a spade! Suddenly he felt horrified by that thought. "I'm sorry. I just came to tell you, we've hired a gardener."

"Oh, that!" The Head returned to its nuzzling at the ants' nest. "Quite tasty, some of these. They don't seem to mind. There's quite a lot of them, so I don't suppose they're much bothered if a few dozens get a bit chewed up."

Henry was taken aback, and ignoring the homily on ants as food, he snapped, "You know about... her?"

"Course I do. She came and said 'hello'. Said Mabel was bound to hire her for a few hours."

"Did she?"

"Yup!"

"Stop talking like an American redneck!"

"Nothin' wrong with rednecks. Just shows they get out in the sun too much."

"HENRY?" The distant shout killed the conversation. Then...

"That's Mabel..."

"Of course it's Mabel, old boy," said the Head in a new cutglass accent. "Hadn't you better answer? Remember... all things decay... that's how Time is measured."

Ignoring the sudden philosophical turn, Henry shouted loudly, "Yes?"

"Someone to see you. Some fat man with a lot of hair, a red face and a big grin. Says you'll know who he is. You've talked on the Internet." Mabel's loud voice petered away to nothing and she'd obviously returned to the house.

"There you go. That'll be Robert from out 'a tha' Soourth o' Americee!" the Head commented in a pathetic imitation of southern American speech, before resuming its snuffling in the ants' nest.

"How on earth do you know that?" snapped Henry.

"All things decay... so do your rotten screwed up bits of printouts, of your e-mails and stuff. Course, I read them all. Don't get many books though... but Mabel threw away your old copy of 'Catch 22'. Not a bad read that, but pages 123 to 147 were missing. Bit awkward that... had to make up the missing bits. The ants have made good use of it though, with this nest." The Head had never said so much in one breath.

"Are you breathing?" said Henry. "How can a Head breath without a body?"

"The only proof of the existence of spirits is the proof mark on the bottle," said the Head in a mysteriously flat deep voice. Then it coughed yet again and Henry could just pick out the sight of another cloud of ants being expelled everywhere.

"Well this is great, old friend," said a cheerful, American voice.

The colourful clothes, the big grin, the abundant white whiskers defined the newcomer as "Bunny" from somewhere south of North Carolina, US of A.

"What! Where... How?"

"You splutter too much," he said.

"You splutter too much," said the Head, almost in unison.

"I got me a Head like that... just like that... back home in a little plot behind the Condo."

"Must be my American cousin, Hetty, " the Head replied, more animated and excited than Henry had ever seen it.

"Don't know about that," said the father Christmas figure, " but she's pretty companiable."

Henry was finding that the earlier drinks he'd downed had made him rather whoozy.

"I must get back indoors!" Henry said, grabbing the cheery old fellow's arm. "Come on."

"Hey!" spluttered the Head. "I didn't finish about that new gardener. She's an eyeful, that one. Watch out Henry. And remember she's some kind of Doc."

Henry stopped, turned, and peered into the increasing gloom of the gloaming, "What?"

"She's a doctor of something...." The Head was chuckling, and then spluttered and coughed its ant-filled cough in Henry's direction.

"Come up to the house. Pay no notice." He pulled his friend away. He'd been shocked. What was a Doctor, of anything, doing working as a gardener?

The Head's voice was raised and came like a slap in the face with a wet fish, "To UNDO the last action in most Windows applications, press Ctrl Z. All things decay... even Windows. Then you can't see a damned thing." It pronounced the letter 'Z' as 'zee' in American, and its voice disappeared behind them.

"You got to help me," Henry said to his friend. "I'm sorry we have to finally meet like this."

"I'm very fond of heads," his Internet friend rejoined. "I'm very fond of mine and take it everywhere!"

There were sounds of guttural chuckling from the compost heap behind them as they made for the house where the lights had just been switched on.

Henry scratched his head. His head was in a daze. He felt he was heading for a breakdown of some kind; though, never having had a breakdown, and being such a calm and easy-going sort of a bloke normally, he found these thoughts only turned his head even more into combustible flames of confusion. Anyway, his sensible American friend would be back from his tour round England next week. He'd listen.

A spell of hot weather meant he'd have to show willing and get out into the garden and do some mowing.

"What are you doing?" snapped Mabel. "The back lawn needs mowing. It's a lovely day. Get yourself some fresh air, get the wind in your hair!"

"Err... Umm..." muttered Henry, and scratched his head again.

"To err is human, to um and err is just bad diction!" Mabel snapped again.

She was getting very snappy these days, thought Henry. Then he realised what she'd said. He turned and stared at her plump form lodged in the half-open inner door to the conservatory. "What did you just say?"

"You heard! Get the lawn mowed."

"No, after that! You've never said anything like that before."

"What?"

"That 'To err is human... stuff."

"Oh, that! That was just something the Head said to me the other day, when we were talking about cooking."

Henry felt cold from his head to his feet. The shiver wouldn't go away. He stuttered, "You.. you... bin talkin' to th... that Head?"

"Course I have. It makes a very interesting garden feature." She giggled in a very unMabel-like way.

Henry couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe the way she was talking.

"Oh, and then I want you to go and do a bit of shopping for me down to the newsagent's. I thought I'd take up my drawing and sketching again. Haven't really done any since I left school... used to be good at it too. I want you to buy me a little pad of blank paper, you know, the sort without lines, and a couple of pencils!"

"Pencils?" Henry's mouth was open and he was convinced he was going mad. "We've got pencils!"

"2B or not 2B - it's only a pencil!" Mabel began to titter, and then she began to laugh as she turned to go. "I want a soft one and a hard one! Brand new ones."

Henry shouted after her... "Did the Head say that? That 2B thing?"

"Yes," came the disembodied voice, "...thought it was quite funny..." The voice faded away.

Henry scratched his head.

He knew Mabel knew about the Head. He knew the gardener, Doc, as he now called her permanently, knew about the Head... but this meant she was having serious conversations with it. He scratched his head yet again as he headed for the garden and the Head, thinking it was all becoming too surreal... crazy. People didn't have disembodied heads talking to them from their compost heaps. The gardener was due today, at 10 o'clock. She was sensible about it... or was she? She seemed to accept there was a Head, and it talked, and... oh... his head hurt.

"Why did you give up golf?" Doc asked, sipping her cup of tea.

"Dunno..." Henry replied.

"A golf course is a site to be holed!" Doc said, and laughed, rather musically Henry thought.

"What do you mean?"

"Site... s-i-t-e, not s-i-g-h-t... to be h-o-l-e-d!" She had to put her cup down. She giggled.

"Don't tell me... the Head said that! You were discussing ME!"

"Yes... we were, as it happens." Doc replied, resuming her calm, laid back position in the kitchen chair. "You know he's given me a title?" She leaned forward and peered over the rim of the cup with her big blue eyes with their flecks of green.

Henry looked down from her gaze and realised the top two buttons of her shirt were undone, and rather two much of two breasts was bursting into view. "A title?"

"Yes... he calls me the Head Gardener!" She burst into hysterical laughter and had to put the cup down again.

Henry stood up. He stood and looked down at his attractive gardener, who was still smiling and giggling. The highlights in her hair flashed golden in the stray rays of sunlight shimmering through the net curtaining. He noticed a tiny flash of left nipple and it brought him out in a flush. He strode away muttering about the mowing.

After about fifteen minutes mowing, Henry couldn't put it off; he had to empty the grassbox... on the compost heap.

"Morning... warm work, I expect?"

Henry had gained courage as he approached the heap... he couldn't see the Head at all. He'd dumped the cuttings and was about to go. Perhaps he was mad. He was imagining the Head, the changes in his wife, the very attractive gardener giving him thoughts he thought he'd never be bothered with again. It was all in his imagination.

"Nice bit o' sunshine for the time of year."

Henry turned back to the heap slowly, and slowly, with little jerks, emerging from the freshly mown cuttings, was the Head.

In the bright sunshine, it seemed even more grotesque. The skin was like the brown crust on a turnip and just as soiled, the lips glistened as if with white toothpaste foam, the matted hair hung like twisted lengths of oily black string, and both ears seemed to be sprouting some kind of indeterminant foliage.

"These clippings will rot very nicely. Nothing like a lovely mulch."

"Err... umm... yes..." Henry stuttered.

"To err is human, to um..."

"DON'T say it!"

"... and err is just bad diction."

Henry stared.

"Hey. No need to look like that you know."

Henry had taken up smoking again. The Head business had really got to him. He only had one or two when Mabel wasn't around. He felt for them now, and took one out. He noticed his hand was shaking quite a bit as he tried to light it.

"While those who must smoke do, the wise wait until they get to the crematorium." The Head dipped slightly and began chewing on some newly mown cuttings, chuckling to itself.

Henry continued to stare as the first drag of smoke dribbled from between his lips. "If I had any commonsense, I'd go away on holiday and leave instructions for you to be dug in with all the other rubbish. I'm fed up with this whole business!"

"That's the way, Henry! Don't I just love it when a plan comes together. You're showing a bit of life at last." The Head had raised its twisted wire-like eyebrows. It had a grimace and its blackened teeth looked like triangular, irregular chips of coal, glistening in the sunlight. "The trouble with commonsense is how uncommon it is." The Head appeared to nearly choke on its own joke.

Henry decided he'd do the shopping. He ran back up the garden, nearly knocking Doc over as she sexily strode down towards the compost heap with her wheelbarrow, everything in motion, including those breasts, which he couldn't avoid, because a third button seemed to have somehow come undone. "Just going to the shops," Henry burbled, blushing, falling off the path into a rosebush. "Bloody roses!" He tried to pull the thorns from his trousers.

"Who calls a rose by any other name was probably pruning without a good pair of gloves."

Henry stared up at her and couldn't take his eyes off her heaving breasts. "Don't say it! Don't say it! The Head told you that!" He scrambled to his feet and ran off as fast as he could.

"Yes!" Her voice followed his mad dash for the sanity of the High Street shops.

He’d gone. After checking for two days, Henry was sure the Head had gone. It was Monday evening. It had been gone for over 48 hours. He was light-hearted as he came indoors and slumped in front of the TV.

"Henry?"

"Yes… Mabel?"

"I need a fresh cabbage from the garden. There’s enough light left for you to get one."

Henry suddenly remembered a saying of the Head: ‘Never question your wife’s judgement. Remember whom she wed!’ "I will," he replied wearily.

It was still light. The garden looked quite pleasant. Beyond the cabbage patch with the other vegetables was the heap; the Head’s heap. The heap was still, deserted, quiet, and he wasn’t going to disturb it. The long kitchen knife glinted in the setting sunlight. The serried ranks of veg., and the cabbages, were very tidy. That Doc woman was doing a good job. Henry felt one or two of the cabbages and was about to cut up his chosen one.

"Watch what your doin’ with that knife!" It was unmistakeably the Head’s croaking, earth-clogged voice.

Henry staggered backwards tripping over his own feet and landed on his bottom.

"Huh!" the Head said, looking at him with its intense eyes. "If you look like your passport picture, you probably need the trip."

"What?" Henry gasped.

"You heard. You tripped. You’re as bad as that American guy."

"He’s my friend."

"He’s been back!"

"What?"

"Back!"

"Back?"

"I’m not always right, but I’m never wrong." The Head began one of it’s wobbling chuckles.

Henry was so confused. "How did you get here?"

"That’s a very deep philosophical question for a Monday evening," commented the Head, "or a very stupid biological one!" It continued to chuckle.

"You know what I mean. HOW did YOU get here… away from that smelly heap?"

"I could say that Doc carried me - out of compassion - out of kindness - nestled warmly in her arms - snuggled close to her bosom! But I won’t. I walked."

"Walked? Walk? How can you walk?"

The Head grinned up at him. "On these!" It lifted a long-fingered, gnarled and grubby hand, covered with matted hair, from the soil. Then wriggled a bit and pulled loose another, just as horrid.

Henry shivered with horror. He felt cold as if iced water was being poured into his veins. If the Head could sprout arms… what else could it be hiding under itself in the earth.

"Is… is that - the whole… of you. All of you?"

"Course it is. What more do you expect? I scuttle around on these hands, these feet sort of things, when I really feel like having a look round. Who do you think eats all the smelly, juicy caterpillars…? Umm… you’ve got a good crop going this year. That Doc woman believes in a natural garden. No ‘orrible pesticides and stuff."

"You walk… get around… on those.." Henry felt himself shivering uncontrollably.

"You can take stuff for that," said the Head. "Today’s waste is tomorrow’s shortage," it said enigmatically, coughed and chuckled. "Old fools weren’t born yesterday!" it cackled. "When I lie in a cabbage bed, I’m telling the truth!" It coughed and it suddenly jerked face down into the dirt and spluttered.

As if the Head had never been away, all Henry’s fears returned. All his tense annoyance at the Head’s comments made him grip the handle of the knife even tighter. He became aware of it.

"Now, now… you came for a cabbage, not for me," said the Head. "lighten up a bit, Henry. I mean you no harm… I mean look…" it waved a scrawny and filthy hand at Henry, all Henry could see was the dirt, black under the long fingernails.

"I could murder you."

"Now that’s a moot point, dear Henry. I live in a very comfortable pile of filth and rubbish and I suppose I could have that knife chopping away at my hands in a mad frenzy, but you haven’t understood everything about me…" it’s voice dropped to an indistinct level.

Henry stopped shivering and leaned forward. "What… about you?"

"W-e-l-l…" it rolled the word out clearly, "how I…" it paused. "How I reproduce!" Its laugh was almost evil in intensity as it lowered its voice again. "If you chop bits off me, you get more of me!"

Its triumphant croaks shook Henry rigid. "You mean… if I hack at you with this knife… the bits will become…"

"YES! Every piece will become another me!"

The horror was almost too much for Henry. He was frozen with indecision. He wanted to plunge the knife into the ghastly grinning face. He wanted to grab the evil looking filthy strands of hair, lift up the Head like a coconut and slash it into bits. But… if every piece grew into another Head…

"You’d clone me!"

"Clone? You mean like… the bits would be exactly like you?"

"Exactly like me… in due time. It comes to all us Heads eventually. We decide we’d quite like to move on. We sometimes get the chop by accident. Sometimes we ask someone nice to chop us nicely down the middle. That way it’s neat. We each get an eye and an ear to start with, and a hand each! But I don’t like talking about reproduction… it’s a bit of a messy business…a bit rude, like with you lot." It began its throaty gurgling all over again.

Henry considered. What had it said about his long time American friend?

"He’s been back you know. Reckons he’s studying me. I think he wants to know if I'm exactly like Hetty. Told me the other day he has a mate called Slug. Now that’s a bloody good name for anyone. I’ve always loved a good slug…" it laughed, " a slug of anything!" If a disembodied Head could have hysterics, that’s what it appeared to have at that moment.

"He can’t have been back."

"Oh, yes he has. He pitches a little tent under the apple tree over there. We spend most nights discussing the ways of the world. Now, why can’t you be like that?"

"Like what?"

"Well, only last night, in his lazy old drawl, you know, he says to me, ‘Why is monosyllabic such a long word?’ Laugh? I couldn’t stop. That was as good a gem as any of mine!"

Henry was reduced to one of his traumatised stares.

The Head went on, after a couple more gurgles and coughs, "He’s a wrinkly old sod, isn’t he?"

"Who?" asked Henry, still semi-paralytic.

"Your American old-timer. Love his beard. Almost as good as mine… but he’s always combing it. And it’s clean! Beards were never meant to be kept clean. You need to store up a bit of the last meal in them… then have a little chew and a suck now and again. And I like his wrinkles. Wrinkles are the service stripes of Life. How’s that for a bit of evening wisdom?"

"Do you ever stop that awful, grotesque chuckling and laughing. You’re like something from Hell."

"That’s the first real compliment you’ve paid me, Henry. Hell isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, you know. Can get a bit warm, even for me."

"Hell? Heaven? What the hell do you know about it all?"

"You haven’t learned Henry. You shouldn’t ask me questions like that." A big slash of a grin caused the blackened teeth to appear. "You can’t have it both ways…" it paused, then produced its punch line, "… unless you’re a hermaphrodite!"

Henry felt the handle of the knife. Something inside him was stretching his nerves to the point where elasticity ended.

"Chill out, Henry, old man. Get yourself a new woman… Hee! Hee! Like that gardener of yours. Now’s there’s a bonny lass. You need talking out, sorry, taking out, of yourself. Be like a knight in shining armour tomorrow and carry her off to the potting shed!" Another attack of earthy hysterics overcame the Head and it toppled yet again onto it’s face.

"I don’t think I’m cut out to be a knight in shining armour," said Henry, slowly and deliberately, feeling the weight of the knife as he rose to his feet, realising his bottom had become wet and cold.

"Quite right," agreed the Head. "The trouble with knights in shining armour is they go rusty!"

They stared at each other. The knife was steady in Henry’s hand at last, pointing directly at the Head.

"Don’t forget," said the Head, "Mabel is still waiting for her cabbage. Here’s a good one. No caterpillars!" It slashed at a nearby cabbage with its long fingernails, as if it was a blackbelt in Karate, and the cabbage was tossed swiftly into the air like a football.

Henry caught it. The moment was gone. In silence, he turned and made his way back up the garden. Behind him, the inhuman chuckles continued, and he just caught a final comment…

"People who are resting on their laurels are wearing them in the wrong place."

Yesterday, the Head had said, "Live every day as if it was your last - one day you'll be right." That had really got Henry thinking! After the 'cabbage' affair, he decided that perhaps fire was the answer. If he couldn't get rid of the pesky pest with a knife, fire must work! Judgement Day was at hand. All robots, nut-cases and Heads would be consumed by fire! Yes... the Head had admitted even Hell was a little too warm for him! The Terminator was devising his plan.
Then there was his uninvited American friend, Bunny. What he and the gardener were up to was nobody's business, but it had to stop. In any case, Bunny couldn't go on living in a tent at the bottom of the garden. Then there was Mabel....
The Head had said only two days ago, that if Mabel's new commentaries and comments were to stop, Henry would have to find a new strategy. She needed to learn, it said, "If you are a gas-bag, don't inflame the meter reader!" It had been the first time that even the Head seemed to be tiring of Mabel. Obviously, like Henry felt, the gardener, Doc, was more preferable as a discussion partner!

The Head didn't know it, but Henry had overheard it saying to Doc, "Never try to teach a pig to sing - it wastes your time and annoys the pig." He thought they were discussing Mabel, but then he thought it might be him!

Henry, in his new guise as 'Head Terminator', wandered down to the rubbish heap, as casually as he could, wearing his golfing shorts. He'd been thinking of getting out more often - to the golf course. His plan was to work out how he could get a can of petrol hidden and close enough to grab, to throw over the heap and the Head at an opportune moment. And how to very quickly get it lit before the Head scuttled away on his vicious looking claws.
"Afternoon," said the Head, combing its filthy beard with a long, yellowish, sharp looking nail on its left forefinger. "You are going to ask me a question."
"Well, yes... I was wondering, you see. Do you sleep?"
"Sleep?" It went quiet and a few friendly bees hummed contentedly near the lavataria therengiaca blue flowers. "Well, I like a bit of a doze now and again, but I never actually sleep."
"You should, you know. It's good for you. -'Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care' or something. We did that at school."
"What? Sleep?"
"No... now wait a minute, you know very well what I'm talking about."
"Oh, I do. I do," the Head muttered, "I really do."
A deep sense of foreboding gripped Henry. He was sure the Head could somehow sense what he was thinking.
In a deep, rasping voice, the Head said, slowly and carefully, "Petrol is very expensive at the moment. You shouldn't be thinking of wasting any."

"What!"

"I was reading in that paper Mabel brought me this morning, about all this panic buying of petrol and diesel fuel. No one should be wasting the nasty, stinky stuff." His voice had suddenly taken on an almost jolly tone.
"Oh!" Henry was as confused as he usually was with the Head after anything more than five minutes.
"By the way," said the Head, lowering his voice, "You can't get rid of Bunny by burning his tent down with petrol. He might be in it, when you try!"
"I wasn't thinking of burning Bunny's tent."
"Oh," said the Head flatly. "I suppose he does spend an awful amount of time over in the potting shed, with Doc. He's probably moved in!!" It broke into one of its gravel toned laughing coughs. "Anyway, fire is a dangerous thing... except to us Heads."
"Oh?"
"I do wish you'd use a different letter of the alphabet, Henry. That's the third time in a couple of minutes. How about 'Ahh!'? 'R' is a very responsible letter of the alphabet! And as for burning things, Heads like me don't burn, and remember that 'Many a true word is spoken in Jest', wherever that may be!" The Head gurgled happily with a mess of greenish froth bubbling around his garish lips.
"Wait a minute!" Henry almost shouted, "What was that you said? Heads don't burn? Of course heads burn. Mine would burn in a fire. So would you," he added, switching into his imaginary Terminator role again.
"Oh, no I wouldn't!" the Head eyed him through its bloodshot excuses for eyeballs.

"Why not?"
"We Heads can stand the fires of Hell, because we are born there!" His eyes seemed to turn green and began to shine at Henry as if they were backlit.

Henry moved back. The shock to Terminator Henry's equilibrium couldn't have been worse. Dumbfounded, he just stared and went even paler in the face than the white of his knees sticking out from the bottoms of his shorts.

"The more you think you know, the less you think." The Head grinned madly, flashing its green eyes. "Don't use no double negatives!" It laughed like a bullfrog croaking with hysterics. "Men are from Earth, women are from Earth - deal with it." It rocked to and fro like the Head of a madman buried upto his neck in pig-muck. "After all is said and done, much more is said than done!"
Henry put his hands upto his ears. He watched the Head's eyes change colour to glowing red, like hot coals.

"Hi there, friends! Having a bit of natter? Isn't that what they say over here, Henry, old man!"
"Don't you start, Bunny. For Heavens sake speak normally. I can put up with that."
"Now. Now, Henry. That's no way to speak to a friend... and I AM your friend, you know."
"Oh!" said Henry.

"He's off again," said the Head croakily, "It's his favourite letter you know... 'O'..."

" Say, Henry, old friend, does bedding the boss always end in the sack?" Bunny grinned at him, fluffing up his white beard. "She's a stunner, that gardener of yours."

"Eh?"(American readers please note this is pronounced 'A' in the UK) said Henry.

"Hello," said the Head, "we're onto the letter 'A' now! That's an improvement."

"By the time a man is wise enough to watch his step, he is too old to go anywhere!" Bunny grinned in triumph as if he'd just won an argument.

"You're both mad!" Henry shouted.

"Don't blame the rule if you don't measure up!" giggled the Head, spitting froth over Henry's smart new sandals.

Henry bent over and pulled at his sock tops in disgust.

"If you've got no socks, you can't pull 'em up!" Bunny was almost dancing with delight at his wit. He then said, more quietly, "Were you thinking of 'pulling your socks up'? Lovely old English saying that! His face took on a more serious look. He went on, "You know what Mabel said when she brought my breakfast down the other morning?"
"Brought your breakfast? She's not made me a proper breakfast in ages!"
"She said to me, 'My idea of housework is to sweep the room with a glance!" He burst out laughing at the serious look on Henry's countenance.

Suddenly, Henry, the ex-Terminator, had a flash, a revelation. He stared from the Head to Bunny, and then solemnly spoke: "Those qualified to know what other humans think, need therapy for believing it."

Bunny stared now, his eyes widening. He looked at the Head.
The Head slowly raised his gaze. The eyes seemed to lose some of their hot glow, becoming just bloodshot eyes more suited to an alcoholic first thing in the morning.

Henry felt a surge of triumph. At last, he thought, 'I understand... or at least I think I do'. "I'm just going off to the golf club. I might be able to fit a round in before it gets too dark. Goodnight gentlemen. I'll be around," he chuckled, "and I'll be back!" Henry strode away feeling as if he'd suddenly become The Terminator, even though he was not quite sure what his revelation meant.
The Head looked at Bunny.

Bunny looked at the Head.

"What's up with you two?" said Doc, suddenly appearing with a rake in her hand, her shirt enticingly displaying quite a bit of her charms, "You look as if you've both seen the end of the earth as we know it."

The Head looked at the svelt charms of Doc and said without a smile or a chuckle of any kind, "The sleek shall inherit the earth."

She smiled awkwardly.

Distantly, they caught the merry sound of whistling from Henry, as a cold gust of wind blew up from seemingly nowhere.

Henry's Head: Part the Seventh Top

"When the plot thickens, weed it," said the Head.

"I feel like handing in my notice," said Doc with a toss of her admittedly lovely hair, and she did!

Mabel was not amused. She immediately thought Henry had been up to something at the bottom of the garden. Then she considered again and thought, more calmly, he hadn’t been up for anything for many a long month.

On asking the Head’s opinion, having grown quite fond of his conversation on her infrequent visits to the depths of the tip, he advised her: "If you want the benefit of hindsight, join a nudist club." At this point, he scrabbled around in the pile of fermenting muck with his long yellow nails and slowly sank from sight. The last thing she saw was what she thought was an accusing look from one bloodshot eye.

Henry didn’t come home that night, and when she searched for Bunny’s tent and pile of fishing rods, they had gone too.

Summer was over. The rains began. The wind blew, and a long stretch of fencing fell down. Henry did not return, and after a week or two, Mabel thought she must tell someone.

She approached the now soaked and slimy pile of muck where the Head should have been. Nothing. She turned to go.

"Abstinence makes the face grow longer!" It was the Head, sitting in a shadow under some old pieces of collapsed fence.

Mabel nearly jumped, in spite of her weight. " Err… ummm…"

"Remember what we said in the spring," the Head said, "To err is human, to ummm is irritating."

"Oh, shut up!" Mabel bent slightly to get a better view of the Head. "Aren’t you getting fatter? Bigger? Or …"

"Don’t be personal!" snapped the Head.

"We miss him," Mabel said, suddenly, with a nearly soft tone.

"Looking in the mirror gives you time to reflect."

"You should do a bit a reflecting, Head. I sense that somehow you miss Henry too. And look at all those snails and slugs crawling and sliding around you. Nasty unhealthy things!"

" Well… let’s see…" The Head’s equally slimy tongue appeared and with a quick nod he swept up a couple of slugs. His horrifyingly slobbering lips moved in a vague resemblance of chewing. Then he raised his gaze and looked into Mabel’s with his most evil, red-eyed look. "Slugs and snails are very health conscious, you know, they eat up all my greens."

Mabel shivered in the keen wind and the drizzle, and caught her coat more tightly around her. It was a good job, she thought, that Henry wasn’t able to see and hear the Head. If anything, these last few days the Head had grown, swelled like some kind of tuber or beet, and was becoming even more revolting and devilish to look at; if that was possible.

"Look, you revolting thing, do you know where Henry went? He went off whistling! What had made him so cheerful?"

"Questions…. So many questions…." The Head scrabbled with his long-fingered excuses for hands at the mulch around him. "Some folk are wise and some folk are otherwise."

Mabel was feeling rather wet and wretched. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Now there’s a question… ‘mean?’ what does anything mean? Doc said I was mean to Henry. If it wasn’t for me, Henry would never have had a Head in his garden in the first place."

"Oh, for Heaven’s sake… does that mean something?"

"If it wasn’t for something there’d be nothing." The Head seemed to wink its burnt fusewire eyelashes, first with one rheumy eye, then the other.

"Answer me directly!" Mabel shouted, and then looked to see if the neighbours could see… or hear her. "Do you know where Henry is?"

"If life is what we make it, aren’t some of us using the wrong ingredients?"

Mabel’s exasperation was coming close to Henry’s when he had had conversations with the Head. "Where is he?"

"Italy!"

"What?"

"Time and tide wait for no man, or woman, so book early," said the Head and made a quick scuttle, like some kind of genetic abomination for a crab, towards the compost heap.

"What’s he doing in Italy?"

"It’s been a bit warmer in Sorrento than here." The Head added in a noncommittal sort of way.

"Sorrento? Where’s that?"

"I told you," snapped the Head, menacingly, "Italy!"

"Why?" Mabel asked, completely befuddled.

"One man’s meat is another man’s poisson," the Head said in a grouchy way, beginning to bubble and dribble round the lips…. But he’ll be back!" And with that he did his wriggling and jiggling and sank into the sodden filth, until not even his long straggly hair could be seen.

Henry's Head: Part 8 Top

Henry staggered off the bus. It was not as hot as it had been. More like England, really.

"Buona sera. Ho prenotato una camera per questa notte."

She was very attractive, Henry noted.

"Si, signore. Il suo nome, per favore?"

"Mi chiamo, Henry…."

"Ah… Henry!" She took a good look at him and seemed to approve. "Un attimo. E’ la camera dieci. Mi da un documento, per favore?" And she smiled a gorgeous smile. "Passaporto?"

Henry searched his jacket. He felt at home. There was something about the place. "Mi da la chiave, per favore?"

"I do speak English," she replied with a smile, passing him the key with its large green plastic tag.

"Thank goodness for that!" Henry found it very hard to get beyond the few phrases he and Mabel had picked up when they went to Rome on the bus trip.

"Le piace l’Italia?"

"Mi piace molto."

"Da dove viene, lei?"

"Can we speak English, please?" Henry asked.

"I would like to." She smiled again. "I hope to go there one day."

"Eh?"

"England," she replied. "Where do you come from, in England?"

Henry liked her from the start. There was something winsome about the way she nodded her head, tossed and flicked at her curly hair.

The next morning was cool and sunny. Before breakfast, he thought he’d explore a little. It was only a small hotel, about twenty or so rooms, and it was more like a large house set around an open courtyard, with a length of narrow garden through one archway to the west, opposite the one which opened onto the road, which went down into Sorrento. He wandered through the arch and looked at the garden, breathing in deeply. It was so peaceful.

He noted the neat rows of vegetables and an old red wall propped up, it seemed, by some vines facing the sun. He followed the path beside the wall. Looking down towards the town, he said, "Good morning, Sorrento" quite loudly.

"Buon giorno, Henry?"

Henry looked round. The rather gravely, deep voice, repeated its greeting.

Henry was rooted to the spot. He stared at the pile of rotting wood and compost against the end curve of the wall, slightly in shadow, somehow knowing, guessing, what the voice belonged to

"I… I… thought I’d got everything.... here… at last… peace…"

"You can’t have everything," the voice croaked, dryly, "where would you put it?" A rasping chuckle followed, and then a wheezy cough.

Henry felt so weak he sank to the ground. He stared as if in a trance. He felt as if he’d never move, walk or talk again.

"Come on, old chap. A rolling sausage gathers no mash!" There was a scuffle, and a creak. A large piece of dry rotting wood fell sideways, revealing the Head. It was trying to uncover its leathery wrinkled face from its straggly hair with a long, yellow nailed hand.

"Scusi,penso che sia sbagliato." Henry gabbled. He thought if he was Italian enough, he could escape the nightmare, and the sense of deja vu.

"Trying out a bit of the old Italiano, eh?"

"YOU! Via di qua!"

"No… no… I can’t go away. I live here, don’t I."

"Lasciami in pace!" Henry shouted.

"Oh, stop that Italian business. You know you and Mabel only had one little book, when you were in Roma! And I can’t leave you alone. It’s you pestering me. Why else would you have come down here instead of tucking into un caffelatte, del pane and del burro with della marmellata!" It giggled, rather insanely.

"HOW? How did you know that?"

"We Heads know everything really. Your old friend in England sent me a postcard!"

"… a … postcard?"

"I really prefer being over there, (he pointed with the long, curly, dirty talon of his forefinger) on that allotment, but I moved in here specially to have a word or three with you, Henry."

Henry was speechless. He couldn’t cope. He wanted to cry.

He could see the Head clearly now. Just like his, the other… except this one was rather leaner, drier, dustier, and the eyes were red… a violent, unmissable red.

Henry felt he had to defend himself, for some reason, somehow: "A big head rarely indicates a large brain!"
"Oh, well done, Henry. My cousin was right. I can see you are a confident man. You know, a confident man is someone who does his crosswords with a pen!" The Head seemed to rock and roll about like a turnip just thrown into an empty wheelbarrow.

Henry really did feel like crying. He felt very cold. It was like being haunted. How could this be?

"Everyone’s normal, Henry, but everyone’s normal is different. And don’t forget, you are missing that good old English Christmas. Remember, everyone stops believing in Santa Claus when they get their bank statement!"
Suddenly, Henry remembered. He stood up, gathered his dignity, such as it was, and said, "Those who think they know it all upset those of us who do!"

The Head gave Henry a rather evil, quizzical look through narrowed, unblinking eyes, then burst into a cackle like scrunched cornflakes in a squeezing hand. "Look out, Henry, here comes that girl, Maria. Remember, a warm embrace is a cuddle in a shower!" And with that he scuttled away under the leaning, rotting planks of wood.

Henry watched, turned and saw Maria approaching.

"Buon giorno, Henry. Desiderano…?"

He stared.

"… for breakfast!" Maria added.

Henry’s Head: Part Nine Top

The front door looked neglected. Where was Mabel? No lights were on.

Henry remembered the Italian Head’s parting comment when he rushed from Sorrento: “If you look like your passport photo, you’re too ill to travel.” Then he remembered how he felt as he left… left the sunshine, and the gentle rain. Left Maria looking like a Mona Lisa framed by the kitchen window. Left that ugly, football crazy boyfriend of hers, threatening to kill him! And thought of his parting shot at that grotesque imitation of his English Head: “The grass next door may be greener, but it’s still as hard to cut.”

There was silence – darkness.

“Mabel?”

He’d sent postcards. He’d even remembered her birthday. He’d sent cards, and some flowers.

Inside, the house smelt dusty. He opened the backdoor and walked down into the garden, knowing he was going to ask the Head what had been going on. The torch in his hand kept flickering. It needed new batteries.

There was no sign of the Head. Everything was overgrown. The beginning of summer had covered the garden with weeds.

A faint voice croaked at ground level from somewhere beyond the light of his torch, “You should always wait for nightfall before claiming you’re in the dark, Henry.”

“None of this is a dream, is it?” Henry said wearily. “I was beginning to hope that it had all been a dream. You know… like kids’ stories. They make up a story and then finish with ‘it was only a dream’ or ‘Then I woke up.’. But it isn’t, is it? You’ve ruined my life. Mabel and I were perfectly okay, until you raised your ugly head.”

The Head tittered… “Raised an ugly head… hee… hee… that’s quite good, Henry! You certainly raised me!”

Henry turned away sadly.

“Oh, come on now,” the Head sounded almost sympathetic, “ You can’t blame Mabel. You are the one who went off whistling to Sorrento. You were only ever the typical husband.”

Henry was aware of the stench of decaying vegetable matter. He turned in its direction waving the feeble torch beam around, until, suddenly, he caught the double red glare of the Head’s eyes. “What do you mean ‘typical husband’?”

The Head scuttled away from the light and became a disembodied voice again. “Well,” it said, “you were the sort of husband who put out the rubbish and gave the impression he’d cleaned the house!”

“I’m not arguing with that…”

“You’re no fun anymore, Henry. Just what my cousin said in his postcard. You couldn’t even sort the Maria problem out, could you? And you ended up ignoring my cousin.”

“I’ve got no money left,” Henry muttered. “I ran out of money. I’ll have to get a job again now… stop being ‘retired’.”

“Well, if you ask me,” grunted the Head in the darkness distantly, “how can you save for a rainy day, when it always is? Well… it is with, you miserable old codger.”

A thought occurred to Henry and he turned to address the darkness very loudly: “Living on earth is very expensive, but it does include a free trip round the sun!”

A slobbering noise greeted this statement. It could have been laugh somewhere near where the cabbages used to be. It sounded something like… “Okay, Henry. Welcome home.”

“Shut up! You’re grotesque! You’re like the snake in the Garden of Eden.”

(to be continued) Top