"Actually, Dog was a horse," she informs him, and laughs. "Admittedly I was four and thought it was a dog. Okay, so maybe creativity isn't my strong suit."

She obediently takes the grain and pours herself a handful, then offers her cupped palm out to the first of her new visitors, a brown-and-white patched creature that looks at her with calm, barred golden eyes and bleats.

"Language!" she tells it, and laughs again as it starts busily lipping away at the grain in her hand.