Henry VIII is dancing. There’s a look of determination in his eyes as he shuffles sideways on the flagstone floor. His costume, his royal accoutrements, add to the solemnity. There is no music, just his dance. The music is coming from elsewhere, and only he can hear it. His gold chain glistens in the candlelight, his shadow mooches a few feet behind its master, elongated. Sidestep shuffle shuffle, sidestep shuffle. Henry VIII is dancing.

She said that she wasn’t amused but I believe that Queen Victoria rather enjoyed the camel ride. ‘It gets cold at night’, I called up to her, ‘out here in the desert. But the stars come out and it looks splendid’.

I was merely making conversation, of course. Her little legs were astride the beast. It must have been very hot for her, wearing all that mourning attire, that dress and all of those petticoats, but she was stoic.

‘Well, someone’s sure as hell spooking the blue-beaked noddies’, Greg said.

We remained quiet, of course.

‘Gibbering wrecks, the lot of them. The island jungle is a fragile ecosystem. They only exist on this island because there aren’t any other predators. Rats . . Cats . . Humans . .’.

I was a human, and so was Liam. It was hard not to take this last remark personally.

And thence did God see fit to make the top step of the main monastery staircase a little wonky, and he saw that it was wonky, and in terms of health and safety legislation, it wasn’t very good.

‘Mother Superior, on her last visit, almost lost her step’, Brother Hilarious reminded the Head Monk. ‘Do you remember all of those curse words? Never heard anything like it’.

‘Ah yes. The blue nun’, Abbot Skerswell said.