Little Mr Pig died yesterday, which is sad.
And we can be as adult as we like; about how he had a nice life, how he lived as long as was to be expected and that at least he wasn't ill in the end. But I shall still continue to be sad, for a while at least.
He may have tried to eat each and every one of my belongings, been impossible to toilet train, piddled on my magazine and surprised the neighbours with his squeaking from behind the hedge, but he was nice.
Just a little nod to the squeaky pig.