My morphine machine has broken

Monday morning. In comes Frank. Frank is a carer in his late fifties. He comes daily to wash me. Still half asleep, I sit upright in my mechanical cradle forking in Greek yoghurt, strawberries and granola and looking out of the window. Up here on the cliff, it’s another clear, blue, busy day ahead for our feathery nest builders, egg rearers and chick scoffers.

In his spare time Frank plays bass, he says. Of all the styles he likes funk best, he says. His style is a busy, intricate one. He’ll show you his air guitar version. Funky Frank is his nickname in the local pub music circle. I’ve been washed in turn by all the local carers now. Catriona and I have decided that although he was a bit brutal with his caring to begin with, Funky Frank has become gentler over time.