I shouted this to my boss yesterday while he was up against a dastardly weed tree with a petrol hedge-trimmer, me holding his wobbly ladder straight.
"Catweazle? That guy?"
"Yep. Definitely. Would have married him."
He swept through the tree in a two-stroke swathe. Limbs, twigs and leaves of the feral plant fell around my sunglasses. I gathered their bits into the wheelbarrow and when he came down from the ladder he was still thinking about it and said:
"That's kinda weird Sarah. How old were you then?"
I was about nine when I fell in love with Catweazle.
Catweazle had Touchwood for a friend, plus a fox. And some rabbits. He could talk to the animals. He had a beard that was soft and white, and eyes that knew, and he lived in a forest hideaway that could be stumbled upon if you were a girl child who knew where to look.
You know, if Catweazle were alive and gave me that sideways eye right now I would fall in love with him all over again.