Trulito got up singing, with one sock on his foot and the other dangling from an ear. We had raspberry jam, there was bread left, and for once nothing bloody hurt. What more could he want? He wiggled his bum over to the fire and started toasting a slice he could barely get his arms around.
“I've got toast and I've got jam, what a lucky sod I am!”
Then the tongue of the old shoe next door flipped open. Ruñuno lived inside, a neighbour who could find something wrong with a nap.
“Will you shut up? What a shit song! You've woken me up.”
It was half past eleven. Ruñuno had been awake since eight, when he'd come out to complain that the birds were looking at each other too much.
Trulito sang more quietly. Then he stopped altogether. He sat down with his toast and picked at it, keeping one eye on the shoe. We watched him and it made us furious. Two minutes earlier he'd been clapping his arse cheeks together. Now he looked as though he owed someone an apology for enjoying breakfast.
Your joy doesn't need his permission
Then his brother Jalino appeared with the mushroom radio under his arm. We'd cobbled it together with two speakers, a crooked aerial and a red button that recorded whatever it picked up. Jalino had no idea what the button did. He just liked making the little light come on.
“Get those bodies moving! We've still got teeth!”
Trulito caught his sleeve.
“Mate, keep it down a bit. Ruñuno's in a mood.”
Jalino looked at the shoe, looked at the half-eaten toast and turned the mushroom radio right up.
“Then he can stuff a sock in his doorway! Pass the jam!”
And he sang even louder. He sounded bloody awful, let's be honest. But he put so much into it that we all ended up dancing, including those of us who'd only come to borrow a hammer. Trulito kept a straight face for three seconds. By the fourth he was using his toast as a microphone, with jam smeared across half his face.
Ruñuno came out as far as the shoelace and let out three long groans. Jalino gave him a twirl, tripped over a root and landed on his bum. He got back up without missing a beat. That bastard had more style flat on the ground than most people have on a stage.
Misery spreads. So does a good laugh
We've got one rule that really matters: don't hand your joy over to someone who only wants to stamp on it. That sort of nastiness is poison. First you stop singing. Then you start hiding everything you're excited about, in case the usual miserable sod thinks it's stupid.
If a mate's sad, we sit beside them and share our toast. Of course we do. Ruñuno didn't want company, though. He wanted everyone to feel as rotten as he did. Well, tough shit. We wouldn't all fit inside that shoe, and we've no bloody intention of trying.
Some people make you want to get stuck into life. Find their table. Pull up a chair. Bring them an idea and let them help you try it, even if you all end up laughing as you pick up the pieces. Anyone who wants to drain the colour out of you can carry on moaning while you go and do something you love.
We took our breakfast down to the river. As Jalino picked up the radio, he pressed another button. Out came Ruñuno's recorded groans, bang on the beat of the music. They sounded fucking brilliant. Trulito started dancing to them and there was no stopping us.
When Ruñuno heard us leaving, he poked his head out of the shoe.
“Oi! That shit song's mine!”
