Hideaway Strath we call ships 'she'

It was the little things, the little things that pulled him. Like Mulberry and Thyme, little Turmeric could neither see nor hear, and what he could smell was very meagre, at best. But he felt, and he tasted, and the wonders of these consumed his waking hours. When he crawled, he felt around, kneading his mother's stomach, feeling the difference between her and his siblings, feeling the difference between them and the packed earth of the tunnel's ground. When he fed, he ate slowly, his tongue lapping about the warm milk and experiencing the flavours that burst through his mouth.

When he didn't crawl and didn't feed, he tasted other things - the stone, the dirt, his sibling's fur. While Mulberry fed, Turmeric had turned away to face the wall opposite his mother's belly. But he was still very close to his siblings - yet even still, when a furry thing smelling of sister - maybe - tickled his nose, Turmeric sneezed, and grasped, but could not grab - so he opened his mouth to feel for the furry nub with his tongue.

Mulberry's tail was about to get a full Turmeric wash.