Behind the hedge where the hollyhocks bloom, beyond the meadow and over the grassy hill, past the fog that kisses the forest’s skirts, lies the land of the little people. Invisible to the big folk with their tromping boots and loud voices, screeching children and slathering dogs, the little people gather in the shade of fallen acorns, hidden. You might have wandered by their stream and thought it a trickle, might have laughed at their lily pad boats and thought them fallen, crumpled leaves. You won’t have noticed the tiny, stone bridge that spans their world and ours, instead, mistaking it for a fallen log or rock at an acute angle. You won’t even have seen them sheltering under their lantern leaf lights at midnight; they look like fireflies to human eyes. But they’ve seen you, my friends. They’re watching you now with glinting, emerald eyes, waiting for the moment you stray beyond the sounds of their trilling chaffinch and blue tit voices. ‘Why?’ you say. Because it’s Friday night, and it’s time to play.