I have never been a fan of houndstooth.

I'm thinking that today is the kind of day that you could find yourself walking into the local Sally Ann thrift store just for the hell of it. It's the kind of day when you suddenly become enamoured with wool cardigans and kitschy salt and pepper shaker sets.

Yet, passing by these beautiful objects, you stop to inspect the blazers, looking for the ever elusive vintage tweed coat that's just perfect which you've been craving for almost a year now. Instead your hands rest upon one particular coat: boxy, wool, with an impossibly garish houndstooth in royal blue and white, a cross between Girl Guides and circus clown.

And in order to confirm that you aren't just hallucinating, you pull it out of the rack to have a closer look. It is every bit as loud as you thought it would be.

Suddenly there is another hand on the pattern, in addition to your own, well manicured, bony, clear veins in pale skin. "That's a nice coat," she says, smiling. She shuffles away, herself a collage of gaudy, mismatched colours and prints.

I think the happy happy turtle needs a name. He's making himself quite at home on my desk. He even found a plant. Plants offer better opportunities for camouflage than Visa bills.

I was thinking of something like Terrence or Harold, but it most definitely can not be Harold, because I have a thing against naming children after family members, especially family members I don't particularly like.

Oh, and some concerned readers have mentioned that they believe that wild animals belong in the wild. I agree. This turtle's plastic.