Max is out of the closet.

Purely in a literal sense. His sexuality is not a matter I wish to consider. Anyhow, I've taken to asking him about his week. He keeps mumbling and shaking, huddling himself into a little ball in the corner. I gather that his time away on other blogs did not go well, and I blame Ben.
 "Why were you late back then?"
He looked at me, big puppydog eyes wide and big like the eyes of a puppydog:
 "Tried to leave. Had to run away, so I went to sea..."
He started to sob again.
 "What?... What happened?"
 "Came ashore, we all went to the pub. Drank a little to much, and passed out. I got press-ganged!"
 "What? Onto another ship?"
 "No!" He went on, "Into the fruit and veg trade!"
Max talked long into the night, his story punctuated only by sobs and explosive vomiting. I gathered, at last, that he had awoken to find himself chained to a stall in the East End of London. There, he was forced to fake an accent, and sell fruit and veg in the persona of a lovable cockney rogue. Understandably, the experience had been rather traumatic on poor Max.
 However, it isn't all bad. His experience seems to have gained him a new job, cameoing on Eastenders. I think he's going to play a carrot.