this old god only haunts heaths and hillsides and quaint places

he has been impoverished by cities

he missed his chance to carve out a new niche when he refused grooming

the ordnance survey dealt him a sore blow

his petty revenges range from bog drownings to muddied boots to death
      from exposure

all are more avoidable than he’d like

he’s become less deliberate

his outbursts are more frequent and starting to worry his friends who
      keep urging him to talk to someone (which he refuses)

he is dirty from crawling under gorse bushes: keeping account of and
      hoarding their secrets

his spheres of influence are shrinking and rolling away

whatever he’s holding down you couldn’t call it a job

he refuses to get a car but is always borrowing his sister’s

he gorges himself on fistfuls of robins

when you encounter his apparition it doesn’t look like he’s been eating