"What does a nudist do in winter?" I asked. The inquisitive brow that met my question forced me to clarify. "Not me, them," I said pointing to the farmhouse. "Have they asked you this?" "No." "Then?" "It's one of those questions. You know, those questions that you never wonder about until you do then you can't get it out of your mind. Is being a nudist seasonal?" "In this country I suppose it is." "Probably wouldn't be in some parts of Spain, would it?" "Probably not." "Or some parts of Australia." Silence. "Or some parts of Africa." Silence. "Or the tropics. But then there are leeches." Silence. "Do clothes stop leeches?" Silence. "You could put a layer of Vaseline around your ankles I suppose. They'd only get so far then 'bam ' They'd hit the petroleum jelly and they'd slide back down." Silence. "Though there would be nothing to stop them eating your feet." Silence. "You could call those ones feetches," I looked up at the one who was not providing any feedback at all. "Hello," I began, "I'm one half of a conversation, and I'm lonely."