After jennaye and miracles and all the rivers of Hades, I should be used to it by now: this turbulent theological switcheroo. No doubt at any moment I shall be exchanging banter with some godly twerp in an overlarge hat. Who knew that becoming the keeper of a divine and almost unlimited power was like walking down the street in Hippo dropping gold coins? Every addle-pated demiurge and drunken river sprite must come and lay his head upon my feet. This one looks woodsy enough: a little man in pyjamas covered in what smells like gull-shit and bile.