Squirrel and Greg met last Wednesday at the Co-Op. Squirrel was buying a copy of the Guardian, Greg was after a scotch egg. Greg noticed the squirrel in the magazine aisle, during a quick downward glance intended to make it look to the old lady cashier like he wasn’t having a sneaky ogle at the titty mags on the top shelf. “What’s a squirrel like you doing here?” asked Greg, bemused. The squirrel looked up, startled, then his eyes slowly melted to the ground, his tiny, squirrel-sized copy of the Guardian falling to the floor. Greg could tell something was up. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. The squirrel nodded. They paid, gathered their purchases, and headed out to the bench in the park opposite the shop. Squirrel told Greg all about his hazelnut addiction, and how he had needed to get out of the house to escape the peer pressure. Greg sympathised. He told squirrel about the heroin. They agreed to swap vices for a week: Greg would get on the nutty-nuts and Squirrel would give shooting up a try.

A week has passed, and Greg sits waiting for Squirrel to return. He’s late. Probably he’s passed out in some tree trunk somewhere, off his face. Greg begins to wonder if he should have been a little more cautious when agreeing to Squirrel’s suggestion. With a delicate sigh, he chomps down on another nut.