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function so badly, and you like mixing with people and it’s easy for you, but I don’t like to do that and it’s difficult for me.
    You’re getting to be just like your father, she said, turning on her heel.
    May was the last word I heard her say. And she stopped and repeated it. May.
    This was a lot to digest in one go. Mixing with people down below was asking for trouble. I said that to the moose, but I didn’t take sufficient heed myself. I should, of course, have made sure that my wife wasn’t in the shop before I started swaggering around like an ordinary man. But now the damage was done and sensitive information has changed hands and I’m going to be a father again. Horror of horrors. That means even more years with cynically composed children’s songs from morning till night and I’m not sure my mental state is up to it. I wish I had a smaller penis. A penis my wife didn’t yearn for. A teeny weeny limp organ she could live without. But you have to live with the organ you’ve been allocated and I’ve never ever seen an advert or an email offering a reduction in the size of such organs, and one saving grace of children is that, despite everything, they provide a bit of charm which, in small doses, can be something special. But birth and death. It’s a revolting circus. My father disappears and a new life appears. One I never knew is replaced by another which I will never ever really know.
    And if there’s one thing I am not becoming, it’s like my father. How could she say that? I hate it when she blurts out things like that.  As if she knows things I don’t. As if she’s been thinking about it for a long time and suddenly decides to share a bit of her knowledge with me, but only a bit, the tip of the iceberg, only a hint, so that I have something to chew on, so that I can work out the rest of the picture myself. This is a technique she often uses and next time I see her I’m going to tell her to stick it up her arse.
    I’ll call the calf Bongo after my father, I decide as I’m strolling back into the forest. Even though my father wasn’t called Bongo I’ll name the calf Bongo after him. Sometimes you’ve got to be open to associations of this kind.
    And in the sack I have some milk, some flour, some eggs, some oil and other staples, but above all milk, of course, as well as animal lotto which I exchanged for some meat in the book shop.  Almost half a kilo it cost me. The moose is versatile and can be used in multiple ways. And, talking of milk, I stop on the edge of the forest, bid farewell to the last houses and knock back a litre. I carefully fold up the carton and take it along to start the fire.
    In fact, I only live a hundred metres inside the forest, but nobody ever comes past. People stick to the paths. And they’re all over the place here. Hundreds of them.  I live only a little way into the forest, but it’s still deep forest because nobody ever comes by. Løvenskiold, the owner of the forest, knows nothing about it. For three days you are allowed to erect a tent in the same place, whereas mine has been here for almost two hundred. I don’t think he’d like that, Løvenskiold wouldn’t.  And the right-wing voters who promenade on Sundays in their breeches or else when they have a few days off or are walking their dogs, they don’t know anything, either. They rush past absorbed in their right-wing thoughts, no more than fifty metres away the whole time, on the way to Vetakollen to look out over the town and to receive confirmation that they live in one of the best places in town, and they have no idea that I’m there. While thinking whether they should invest another handful of money in low risk stocks or whether they shouldn’t force their neighbour to prune the tree which before very long will be blocking a little bit of their view over the fjord or some of the sun from their garden. I’m sitting in my tent and I don’t like them, and they don’t know and I like that.