The house, small and sturdy, nestled comfortably into the rolling hills of the North Yorkshire Wolds. Its stone walls, weathered by centuries of Sunshine, wind and rain, held a quiet charm, a warmth that seemed to emanate from the very Yorkshire earth it stood upon. This was George's house.

It wasn't grand, by any means, just a cosy two-bedroom cottage with a rambling garden overflowing with wildflowers, but it was his. He'd inherited it from the late, delightfully eccentric, Dame Agatha Punch, a woman who had, in her later years, developed a fondness for tortoises.

Dame Punch's son, John, and his wife, Mary, lived in the house too. They were George's carers, although the word felt a little strange. They didn't think of it as a job. More of a? life choice. They fed him, cleaned his enclosure (when he wasn't roaming the garden), made sure he had fresh water and even changed the channel on the television for him. After all, a tortoise couldn't be expected to navigate a remote control let alone Netflix.

George was, to put it mildly, utterly dependent. He couldn't shop for groceries (imagine a tortoise pushing a trolley!), couldn't dial the vet when his shell felt a bit itchy, and definitely couldn't understand the complexities of modern technology. And then, of course, there was the language barrier. He communicated in the way tortoises do - through slow blinks, the occasional chomp on a dandelion, and a general air of quiet contemplation.

John and Mary were devoted to George. They were a retired couple, content with the gentle rhythm of life in the countryside. Caring for George filled their days with purpose, a pleasant routine punctuated by the occasional trip to the garden centre for a new variety of lettuce. They even took him on holiday with them once, driving him carefully in a specially converted cat carrier in the back of their Morris Minor. They never left him alone, except for their annual week-long getaway to the Scarborough seaside, during which their niece, Sarah, would house-sit and dutifully attend to George's needs.

Life was peaceful. Predictable. In the morning Mrs. R. Reeves, The Council Tax Accounts Lady from North Yorkshire Council, arrived.