Alf knew that in the country where dogs were possible to turrify means to annoy. He had always had dreams ever since he could remember–dreams of the farm in Kent that his aunt talked of, where the cherry orchards were, and the pears on the side of the house, so you could pick ‘em outer window. He had dreamed of being King of England, with ermine robes, so jolly for the winter; and a gold crown–less convenient, perhaps.