Oh, lonely wanderer...You trip in the dirt. Curse at the hurt,

Something something. Something.

I can't remember the words. Shame. My Mum used to sing it me to me and Tom, when we were small enough to sit on each of her knees, she'd lick a cloth and wipe the dirt off our faces. And she'd sing those words. Funny, how I never understood that tune, until today.

I'd run through the streets of Rochdale, sticking my hands into an old fart's pocket. Then, if I was lucky, I'd pull out a silver coin or two. Or a dirty rag. Or, if I was seriously unlucky, a bruise and a yank on my ear. Those clouts would hurt like hell. But, it was worth it. Risking yourself for a exciting glug of grown-up ale behind the barn door, you and your mates, in a crazy dream, thinking all the pretty women of the world would bow to our feet - then spewing in a bush.

But, we grow up, eh?

Everything we do is a choice, and I chose to grow up. Robin loves saying that line; everything is a choice, everything we do. Honestly. He loves it. Tom, unfortunately, grew into an idiot who was strangled to death by a rope. Could've been me. But it wasn't.

So I hand out those silver coins I once pocketed to a lonely farmer, who hasn't tasted any meade in his life. I find it hard to understand, as I watch him scatter some seeds or whatever onto the ground. Even me, sovereign of Sherwood, couldn't tie myself down to a patch of chickens. I always wondered how a man could do it. Why? Why would you want to live a life like that? Even if I was starving to the bone, I couldn't.

But I see him laughin' at his kids. Skinny buggers, they are. But they're happy. And it confuses me. The look in the bloke's eyes, as his wife picks up a gnat and sticks him on her knee, licking a cloth and wiping the muck off their face.

It all makes sense.

Guess it's that feeling you get when you see the pretty girl, who helped pick you up when you were spewing in the bush, running out of her house with tears in her eyes. You can hear screaming, and all you want to do is cry, too. Can't explain it. It kind of – rips your insides.

Everything we do is a choice. Why make such stupid choices, eh? Not being funny, but it all adds up. We do it out of love.

I hate the word. It makes my stomach twist. Mum used to say, I'd fall in love some day. Maybe I did. I'd like to, actually. Maybe life would make more sense if I didn't just wander around, seeing people make puppy-eyes at each other. It's like when you see a drunk git, and you wonder what it's like to be so high. You don't understand...'til you have a sip...And then you spew, obviously.

Oh lonely wanderer, you trip in the dirt...something something. I should've really learned the words.

I can see Robin running around like a wild pig, squeaking after Marian. He makes a complete arse out of himself, but he's so boozed up on love, it manages to make sense in that little head of his. He's lost it. He's crazy. Running past knives and guards and God-knows-what... just give his bird a kiss.

I see the way John mooches around in the bushes, spying on his kid. All he's doing is gawping at them. But you can see how happy he is, just staring at Alice and Little Pipsqueak John. It cheers him up for the rest of day and he sits scratching his staff in the corner of the camp, still chuckling like a sap.

People in love are hilarious. It's like an excuse to be an idiot. Like, when Djaq does a special squeak if Will's been punctured with an arrow and she flaps around like it's the bloody apocalypse. I can see Will trying to hold down a smile every time she turns around, even through the awful pain.

I understand. Sort of.

I suppose I need to fall in love, to make it all really clear. But, for now, I'm just a lonely wanderer...something something something...