Marley. This man's soul was made of tweed, of very thick tweed, and of an indefinite colour, the colour of grim tweed. A grim, tweedy soul, it was. He would leave his house at certain times every day, and walk round to the park, sit on a bench, the same bench every time, and think. He would then take the long way back home. He'd go out again, to the park, to the bench, and back home the long way. Over and over and over. What was to an external observer the same routine was a deep and exciting, grim and tweedy experience for Marley. 'There goes Mr. Marley', and 'I wonder what he's thinking', and so on. Others would go to the park to play and to chat, but Marley went to listen and to think. Listen and think, grim and tweedy. One day at the park, Marley met a pig named Pork. Pork told him all about his farm, his family and his plans for the future, and Marley listened to every word; he was very attentive. Pork thanked him, and went on his way, while Marley stayed on the bench, and thought.