HAROLD

I swear he’s staring at me.’ Phil had frozen, a bottle of beer midway to his mouth.

‘Who?’ Sally placed the steaming bowl of mashed potato on the dining table and turned towards the French windows, which faced onto the garden of their holiday cottage.

‘Him.’ Phil nodded towards the field that bordered the end of the lawn.

Sally smiled at the sight of the great old bull standing just beyond the garden fence. ‘Oh, you mean Harold. The owners mentioned him.’

Phil blew through his lips and took a sip of beer. ‘Harold, is it?’

‘Of course he’s staring at you,’ said Sally, pouring a glass of wine. ‘He sees you as a competitive male.’

Phil tutted. ‘How would he know I was a male?’

Sally looked her husband up and down. ‘Admittedly it’s not that obvious, but animals know these things.’

‘You certainly knew I was a male 30 years ago when you sidled up to me in that bar,’ said Phil, taking a longer swig of beer.