Malcolm had been hoping, on waking, to be a horse. That was his plan. As he had been running across the field with the sheep, he’d noticed a group of horses in the next field. That was why, apart from having had enough of being a sheep, he’d chosen that spot to go to sleep in.

He wanted to be a horse not just because he thought being a horse might be great – proud and dignified and strong and fast and not-sheep-like – but also because he had had an idea.

If he was a horse, he could get back home. He didn’t exactly know the way, and he didn’t exactly know, when he got there, how he was going to communicate to his mum and dad that he was not just any old horse come off the street and into their house, but was, in fact, their son Malcolm. He decided, however, not to worry about that just yet.

He was sure that, somehow, Stewart and Jackie would recognise him, and sort everything out. They didn’t, it was true, have a lot of practical experience with goat spells. But they were his mum and dad. And they would know what to do. He hoped.

On waking, though, he was also fairly sure that, once again, he hadn’t ended up as the animal he’d planned. Because he wasn’t cantering majestically through the fields, tossing his mane in the wind.

No. Rather, he was lying face-down in some mud. He seemed to actually be breathing in mud. He tried to get up, but just slipped, and sank further into the mud. He looked up. The sun was significantly lower in the sky than it had been when he went to sleep. The day was slipping away and he’d turned into the wrong animal.

One clue to which animal he had become this time was that, even though he was now caked in it, Malcolm seemed to really quite like the feel of all this mud. He could feel it sticking to his skin, but instead of thinking urrrgh or I must have a bath or even, like he would’ve done when he’d been a cat, Quick! Lick it off!, he thought – in more or less the same tone as Homer Simpson might use if he was thinking about doughnuts – Hmmmm. Mud …

The other clue was that, bearing down on him as he rolled around in the mud, was an enormous pink two-pin plug socket, with hair coming out of it.

This became a clearer clue when the enormous pink two-pin plug socket with hair coming out of it snorted.

Ah, thought Malcolm. It’s not an enormous pink two-pin plug socket with hair coming out of it. It’s a nose. Or, to be more exact, a snout. The snout moved backwards to reveal that it was attached to the head, and body, of a very large pig indeed, who was looking at him curiously.

“That’s odd,” said the pig. “Ludwig!”

“Yes, Mabel?”

Malcolm looked round, to see another pig, even more enormous, sitting – well, sprawling – in an even muddier section of what Malcolm now realised was the pigsty.

“Have we had any new kids recently?”

Ludwig thought about this for some time. Then he let out a large grunt. Which Malcolm heard as:

“No. I don’t believe so …”

“No, I don’t think so either. But look.”

“Look at what?”

“Ludwig! Come here!”

Ludwig groaned, and heaved himself slowly up out of his puddle. Large globs of muddy water came off his belly, which seemed to swing in slow motion as he walked across to Malcolm.

Malcolm sat up out of the mud. Well, his bottom half was still very much in the mud. But his face was out of it, at least.

“Hmm …” said Ludwig. “I don’t remember this one at all. Especially not the blue eyes. Does he have a name?”

“Excuse me …” said Malcolm. Then he stopped.

“Yes?” said Ludwig.

“Am I a pig?” he said.

“That’s a funny question,” said Mabel. “None of our children have ever asked that before.”

“Yes,” said Ludwig. “Although you could say it’s a very good question. When do any of us truly become a pig? Is it when you first roll upside down with your hooves in the air while sinking in the mud? Or is it when you gobble more than seven manky apples in a row?”

“When you do your first really big snort?” suggested Mabel.

“Yes, that is a key moment. Or: is it something more spiritual than that? Perhaps it comes with the realisation that it’s very unlikely that you will ever fly?”

Mabel sighed, and looked up at Ludwig lovingly. “Oh, Ludwig. You are a very clever pig.”

“Some humans, Mabel, have a thing called a Barmitzvah, which marks the date when you become a man. Perhaps we should have something like that. A Pigmitzvah. To celebrate when a piglet becomes a pig.”

Malcolm decided the time had come to butt in. “Yes, but they are the humans who don’t like pigs.”

Ludwig stared at him.

“You say that, but what you mean is they don’t eat pigs. A good thing, in my book.”

Mabel sighed again.

“You’re so full of wisdom, Ludwig …” She turned to Malcolm. “You are a lucky piglet. Your father is the cleverest of all pigs, and pigs are the cleverest of all the animals.”

“Well,” said Malcolm, “if you are so full of wisdom, and not just manky apples …”

“Rude,” said Ludwig. “We’ll have to work on that, Mabel …”

“… then explain why you’ve got me so wrong. You see: I’m not your child. I’m not a pig. I’m a human. I’m a boy-human. And I have a name: Malcolm.”

Ludwig and Mabel exchanged glances.

“Well …” said Ludwig, “… it must be awful to feel something so wrong. So first of all, we shall not call you Malcolm. It is a human name.”

“Yes, that’s because I am human. I just told you.”

“I am trying to relieve you of that strange and painful delusion. And also of that name, which is a slightly dated one for a boy at that.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Malcolm.

“Well, it is,” said Mabel. “It’s like Alan. Or Norman. It sounds like you’re fifty-four and work as a regional manager for ASDA.”

“Please don’t mention the human supermarkets,” said Ludwig. “We know what products they contain.”

“Sorry.”

“So,” said Ludwig, turning back to Malcolm, “to help you restore pride in your pigginess, and bring you back to loving your piggy-self, we shall call you the most prized pig-name of all …”

“Right,” said Malcolm, wearily, “and what is that?”

Ludwig took a deep breath, and said, grandly: “Fatty Bum-Bum!!”

“All hail Fatty Bum-Bum!” said Mabel. “Say it loud and say it proud: Fatty Bum-Bum!”

“Please don’t call me that!”

“It’s a lovely name!” said Mabel.

“Not if you’re a human!”

“Ah, but that is what you need to stop thinking about yourself. Love your pigginess, Fatty Bum-Bum! Love your piggy piggy pigginess, Fatty Bum-Bum!”

As he said this, Ludwig began circling Malcolm, and chanting it. Mabel joined in, circling and chanting. Their hooves splashed mud on Malcolm as they trotted round him, forming a circular pig wall.

“Love your pigginess, Fatty Bum-Bum! Love your piggy piggy pigginess, Fatty Bum-Bum! Love your piggi—”

“Yeah, thing is, pigs …” said a familiar drawling voice, “… he’s right. He’s not a pig.”

Malcolm tried to look over Mabel and Ludwig to see who was speaking, but he was too small. So he looked under them, which had its own challenges, given the amount of teats Mabel had, and the amount of mud, straw and bits of manky apple on Ludwig’s underside.

But even through all that, he could see – and was mightily pleased to see – Zsa-Zsa the cat, sitting on the wall of the sty. Licking herself, obviously.