I was followed down the street today by a group of tiny sinister men who hacked at my heels, ineffectually for the most part, with small swords and axes. They were dressed in long dirty coats and dark green stetsons from beneath whose filthy brims their red eyes gleamed fiercely. They picked up my trail on the way back from the shops. I had walked hurriedly past, where they had been gathered around a dead cat, poking it with their blunted, pitted weopons. As I past the little gaggle they had looked up at me, and I had turned my gaze quickly away, staring with apparent, but feigned interest, at the butchers ship opposite. Where torsos hung, headless and legless, in the window. I had only walked a few steps when I became aware of the curious looks that salarymen and washerpeople where casting in my direction. I looked behind and saw that the little group of men were now skipping after me, the metal segs on their boots throwing sparks from the pavement as they pursued me. I increased my speed but they kept pace with me, and I was laden by my purchase of cogs and anchorchains. When I neared the leafy silence of my street they suddenly attacked, slicing at my felt and leather shoes with their tiny weopons. Only one blow did any any real damage, a lucky strike slicing into a corn on my middle foot, otherwise I was unhurt.

So now I lie in my cradle, its gurning lines and joy harness untouched, as I listen to the little people tapping to the window and scrabbling at the flue, seeking an ingress. Seeking a way in.