You and your friends, two, perhaps three, are up on the top of a hill. Now maybe you’ve never been to the top of a hill, but in Wales, where I have spent most of my life, we are surrounded by them.
You are on one of these hills, at night. There you look up into the stars and follow the scarves of your breath as they twist up into the skies.
Just then one of you spots something.
“Look,” your friend shouts, “up there.”
And you all see the Sufflebell, trinkling and supping, nodding at your curiosity.
Now perhaps I should explain what a Sufflebell, or rather, what the Sufflebell is. I should but I won’t. I won’t because I don’t want to. What have you ever done for me? You come here expecting stories that start and go on and then end. Perhaps you didn’t. Perhaps someone said to you, “you know, you should read that story it’s not the sort of story that starts and then goes on and then ends. Maybe you’ve even stolen this story without knowing much about it at all and that this very moment it is under your coat making its way to the outside, where there’s a bridge and, further on, a big ship in harbour. Your heart is thumping away and you’re not sure yet whether you really want to read this story or not.
However, if you are reading this and your imagination is still perched on top of that hill, waiting to glimpse the mystery of the Sufflebell, forget it. I’m not telling you.