He doesn't move, as he's promised. As he sits, he takes time to try and focus his vision. It doesn't do much. The distance is a huge mess of things, but so is everything much closer than his knees. So he can see his boots, still on, and he feels a bit of a slump for being in a lady's bed with his boots on.

She comes back and sits on the bed, and this time he can sort of make her out. Dark auburn hair, green eyes, fair skin. A very good witch, that's for sure. And well fed, certainly. None of that flat as a board look that's been quite so popular in the last twenty years.

"Birmingham," he says. Then, because she said some fanciful it's like your Russia horseshit earlier, he says, "England. Do you know England?"