From just below the rim of the well, to the deepest part of it, things lurk. You know … things. From time to time, Simon peeps over the edge to try and catch sight of them. He's doing so now.
There is a scurry of – of what? Of feet; claws; the clinging underbelly that slugs and snails have, but not puppy dogs’ tails? Simon peers; squints; focuses.
On better days, better for the enjoyment of the thingummy-watchets than for Simon’s , he’ll get caught up in a game of playing with the echo, and be puzzled at the odd reflections. Sometimes, utter silence is all that comes back from the well.
The – what should we call them, other than things? – the oh, thingys, seem to share an enjoyment of his struggles. There is something like glee in their demeanour as they contemplate his … the thing nearest the edge backs away a little in fear of its name … his whatchamacallit, the thing trembling a little now … the ... humiliation: yes, Simon says 'humiliation'.
There is a soft ‘bing’ as ‘humiliation’ rises to the surface and bursts somewhere inside Simon’s head.
“That’s the word: gotcha, you little beggar,” and Simon turns back to his laptop.