Crawling, I scurry along the dry ground, dodging the tall blades of yellowing grass, when something blocks out the sun.
Shaded, I keep scurrying, much preferring the darkness under a home stone. But then I’m crawling onto a squishy pink hand.
This is the end, I think, squishing time.
If I were a ladybird, I would fly away but all I can do is keep scurrying on my six little legs.
“Mr Woodlouse,” says a smiling boy, “Weren’t you friends with dinosaurs?”
Well I wasn’t, I think, but my many great Grandfather was best friends with a T-Rex called Jim.