There's a moment where Bob's expression narrows into a bemused squint at the idea of a symbolic rebirth. That sounds like something he definitely doesn't want to get caught up in. A bit too philosophical for his liking and not something he wants to entertain in any depth, thanks very much.

But as much as he'd like to just sidestep all of this and hope that this is all an absinthe-fuelled dream, the cold is a little too nippy. The sound of the trees a little too authentic. He never dreams in detail like this.

"Bob."

Monosyllabic for a long moment, he snaps back to attention the second he feels the crawling and unpleasant sensation of being watched.

"Reckon I owe you a pint for this," he says and thumbs the cloak slung around his shoulders.

"Fancy heading to somewhere a bit less out in the open, by any chance?"