Forget that “field and fountain” rubbish. Desert and scrubland, more like. It’s no joke traipsing after yonder star for nights on end with sand in every crevice and a corpulent king on your hump. No prizes for guessing who got saddled with the gold. My two so-called chums who aren’t carrying gold are so smug I could spit.
Hullo, we’ve arrived. Call this a barn? Barely a shack. Stuffed with kneeling humans, confused sheep and incontinent cows. Mmmm, hay smells fresh, though.
Blimey, one measly mangerful won’t go far. Bags I first dibs.
Waiter! There’s a baby in my supper…