Accidentally, I am a guest of some sort at a shabby farm. My host is a curious elderly man with a fascination for anthropology. As soon as I arrive, he regales me with stultifying tales of his years as an explorer and ethnographer. It is all I can do to stay awake. There are two other guests at the farm, a large, big-boned man and his boyfriend, a man with an expensive haircut. Two days pass, and I am sitting on the dilapidated veranda with the big-boned man, drinking gin. Our host shuffles over from one of the barns, and invites us to come and meet a man who thinks he is a pig. Intrigued, we put down our gins and follow to the barn. After our eyes adjust to the dim light, we find ourselves in a disgusting, reeking sty. In the gloom, we make out a man covered with mud and excrement, snuffling loudly in the steaming straw. He looks at us, grins broadly, and grunts several times. Our host tells us that the pig-man likes us. We settle down on the filthy ground and watch as the pig-man start to fling mud about. My big-boned companion seems quite taken with the idea of becoming a pig as he hurriedly removes his shirt and grabs a handful of mud. As lumps of stinking matter fly perilously close, I decide to make a hurried exit. I effect my egress, and emerge blinking in the daylight outside. Wiping spatters of slime from my person, I return to my gin, shaking my head and wondering how on Earth I always end up surrounded by lunatics and maniacs of one sort or another. Later that evening, drinking yet more gin and watching the setting sun, I am set upon by the man with the costly hair, who accuses me of leading his boyfriend astray. He screams to me that his once-polite partner now believes he is a pig, and then commences a vigorous and sustained physical attack. Needless to say, I cut my 'holiday' short and return to my room in the city. There I brood on the nature of relaxation, and the fact that my recuperative powers are perhaps deformed in some horrible way.