But that's something Benny has always wanted to know. He can't help being funny. He was born with a birth-defect called 'Comedianitus' or something. It runs in the family. All you have to do is look at Benny and you want to laugh. It's quite sad really.

Benny goes across the room so I won't start laughing. It's not good for my old heart. He stands beside the goldfish bowl until the fish nearly drowns - the poor thing goes into convulsions and emits a lot of air bubbles - then he comes back.

"Are there any other people like me?" he asks.

"Might be?" I say, "I haven't heard of any though."

The milk's doing a wonderful job, churning around inside me. It keeps me feeling really sleepy and serious.

"I like making people happy," says Benny, "Its good for them."

"It sure is," I agree, "Trouble is, you can't make everybody happy. Just the people you're close to."

"I wish I could get close to everyone in the whole wide world!" says Benny.

And that's when I told him about my secret project.

"Come out the back with me," I said.

Benny's strong for his age. He gets behind my chair and pushes me through the flat and down the concrete slope into the garden. He pushes me right into the geranium bushes, but I tell him I don't mind because they do hang a bit over the garden, and he helps me back to my wheelchair. He's a good wee boy, my Benny. Always trying to help.

Then I take him over to a little room, like a telephone box, or a broom cupboard, and open the door. Inside is an apple tree. A very special apple tree.

"You see this tree?" I ask.

"Yes?"

"It's got one apple on it, hasn't it?"

"Yes, one."

"I've been growing this tree for seven years," I tell him, "Seven long years."