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In her dingy flat, all’s a blur—smells o’ gin and regret. She’s quick, no faff, like balancin’ books at month’s end. “Time’s winged chariot,” I mutter, quotin’ the flick, and she’s like, “Wot? Shut up and shag.” Hah! Fair play, lass. Done in ten mins—bang, crash, over. I’m lyin’ there, pantin’, thinkin’ o’ Jean blinkin’ his one eye, trapped, while I just bought me way outta me cage fer a tick.

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I head out to the sheep pen on Hrafnseyri. Man, those little fluffballs are a handful. One of ‘em, I swear, thinks it’s a dog. Keeps tryin’ to follow me around. I name him Fluffy McFluffface. Classic, right?

Figure 2. South-east flank of the Eyrarfjall mountain above the town of...