“Look. I’m going to ring the sheep man up.”

We have decided to buy a sheep. A whole one, butchered and cut up into joints for the freezer.

“Do we really need to pay for one? There are loads in the field up the road that we could… acquire.”

I look at Short Tony, wondering whether he’s serious. He takes another swig of red wine. I take another swig of red wine. He takes another swig of red wine. I have always been quite competitive so I take another swig of red wine and pour some more. The LTLP and Mrs Short Tony sip their girls’ drinks, daintily.

We agree that it would be possible to wait until the dead of night, drive up to the fields, select a juicy looking sheep, bundle it into the back of the Land Rover and smuggle it back into the garden.

“How would we butcher it?” I ask. “You’d have to be the one to shoot it. I only have an air rifle. That would be no good. All we’d have would be a slightly bleeding and very annoyed sheep.”

“According to Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall,” pipes up the LTLP, “the meat is better if the animal is not stressed when it is slaughtered.”

We ponder this. “We could take your Jag,” I say. “That would give it a smoother and more comfortable ride home.”

Short Tony is unenthusiastic about having a sheep in his Jaguar. We drink some more red wine. I have a brainwave.

“Rohypnol!” I announce. “That’s the answer. I’m always getting emails trying to sell me Rohypnol. We get hold of some, find a sheep and doctor its food. It will be dark, so the sheep will not notice that there is a blue tinge to it. Then we carry it into the Land Rover and bring it back here.”

“Additionally,” I continue, now enthused, “there’s another advantage. If we bottle out of the slaughtering bit and have to take the sheep back to the field, the Rohypnol will mean that it won’t remember anything.”

A pause, before Short Tony pipes up.

“If you’ve given it Rohypnol, will you be…”

“No.” I state, firmly.

I pour some more wine.

“It would probably be better just to buy one, wouldn’t it?”

I am handed my bar tab.

The Well-Spoken Barman passes it over with an apologetic look. The envelope seems particularly thick.

I like my bar tab. It is very useful for those of us without local cash machines, and with interest rates being as low as they are at present it is really just another way of saving money. Plus I can cry ‘put it on my tab please, barman!’ in a jovial voice, which is a good way of being manly.

I note the total with alarm. I appear to have saved a great deal this month.

Short Tony and Big A look awkwardly to the floor.

I check the amount. Then I check it again. Then I check that it is not George Best’s. Then I check that the Well-Spoken Barman hasn’t accidentally handed me the entire inventory list that the brewery leaves behind with them. Then I check the exits.

They have included the individual till receipts from each evening. Reluctantly I conclude that they tally with my visits.

“Hang on!” I cry, spotting a major discrepancy on two till rolls of a particular long nature. Each roll has to be signed off by me at the end of the night. These two have a different signature!!!

“Was this you?” I demand sternly of Short Tony.

“No!” he denies.

“Or you?”

“Absolutely not!” says Big A.

Doubly-reluctantly I conclude that I’d been in there on those nights, but had been incapable of writing my name.

I give a long sigh.

I quickly glance about the pub to check that the LTLP is not about to leap out from behind some curtains. I hand over our joint credit card.

Saturday.

We go to Big Hairy Pete’s party.

Big Hairy Pete runs an excellent pub in Hertfordshire. It is about two hours away. The people there would be more my friends than the LTLP’s, and I am grateful for her coming, so I offer to split the driving equally.

Thus it is that I drive there and she drives back.

Last time we went, I got shouted at a bit for getting drunk and sleeping all the way home. This time I am determined to be a better travelling companion, and plan a schedule of witty and urbane conversation.

It is, as expected, an excellent do.

I know when it is time to leave, and zigzag to the car, sinking comfortably into the bucket seat. We set off. The dialogue goes something like this:

“God, isn’t this just a great CD?”

“Yes, I quite like it.”

“It’s an absolutely stonking track. Stonking.”

“It’s a bit loud.”

“But isn’t this just the best CD?”

“Yes, it’s all right.”

“I need to go for a wee wee.”

We drive on until we reach a suitable field. I go for a wee wee. We listen to the rest of the CD.

“Isn’t that one of the greatest records ever made?”

“Well it’s all right I suppose.”

“I’m going to put it on again.”

“Can’t you put something else on?”

“I need to go for another wee wee.”

She takes a deep breath and drives on. We reach a dark secluded bit and she pulls over.

I get out of the car. Into a ditch.

I extricate my leg, sway about a bit and go for a wee wee. I return to the recently-valeted car. I shake a bit of muddy water off, but can’t avoid treading filth on the carpet. I am dimly aware that I smell of ditch.

I engage her in a bit more conversation about the CD. I’d like to say that she was very patient and understanding with me, and she probably was, but I fell asleep at that point and only woke as we were backing into the drive.

“Come on,” she says. “Get your shoes off. I’m really tired.”

“I’m hungry,” I say brightly. “Is there anything to eat?”

High drama in the village!!!

Blue flashing lights over the road. Short Tony rang the doorbell to let me know.

“There’s a dog unit and everything!” he burbled. “And another one just round the corner! And they’re searching peoples’ gardens!”

“Gosh!”

“Mrs. Big A’s just called me. Apparently there’s some sort of armed response unit as well.”

This was a slight concern (but also quite exciting as well). After some discussion we concluded that it was unlikely to be another stolen trailer, and was probably a homicidal maniac.

“I think I’ll search our garden,” I said. “Just to be safe.”

On reflection I decided to leave my gun indoors so that I wouldn’t be shot accidentally by the police. Instead I took a powerful torch, which I would shine aggressively at any Dennis Hopper type madmen I found lurking in the woodshed.

Nothing.

Returning to the house, I realised that leaving the front door wide open was probably a mistake, as a lot of heat was escaping from the kitchen. I gave a full report to the LTLP, explaining that I did not wish to be another Tony Martin but protecting my house and loved ones was paramount.

That Mr John Redwood was on Question Time only last week, complaining that householders are unsure of what they can do if they walk into their living room to find a swivel-eyed maniac loon in front of them.

Fortunately I was aware of my rights, and slowly and calmly switched off the TV.

Later on I slipped round to Short Tony’s to see if he had an update on the situation. He was holding a large iron poker, but I couldn’t help noticing that he’d got Mrs Short Tony to actually answer the door.

The police had gone, but we decided that it would not be a good idea to go round to Big A’s in order to ring the doorbell then hide in the bushes.

I shall be sure to purchase a local paper tomorrow.

Continued from yesterday.

We chug towards home at a steady forty miles per hour. Short Tony looks at me strangely.

“I don’t want to alarm you,” he says, “but the accelerator’s stuck.”

I smile at his little joke, and make some mental calculations. We probably have twenty quid’s worth of logs in the back of the Land Rover which is not bad for five hours work between us. If I can get away with not paying him a share of the diesel I will be even more up on the deal.

“No – it really is stuck.”

So if that represents three fires’ worth, and we have a fire every day, and I still have half a shedful at home, and we do this logging thing every weekend, I probably wouldn’t have to pay anybody for more wood this year.

“Look!” he explains, lifting his feet from the pedals.

We career down the single-track lane, out of control, the engine revving away of its own accord. I start to realise the gravity of the situation. Short Tony kicks the pedals. Nothing happens.

I frantically rummage through the front shelf to see if there is a note from some Dennis Hopper type madman from the film ‘Speed’. I cannot see anything from a Dennis Hopper type madman from the film ‘Speed’, and I have left my phone at home so don’t know if he has left a message.

An expensive looking BMW is coming towards us in the opposite direction. Short Tony removes the ignition keys and steers us up onto a verge. The engine runs on slightly, but we shudder to a halt and alight ruefully.

“That was exciting,” he breathes.

I agree, with the proviso that we are now in the middle of nowhere in a broken car. It suddenly seems to be getting a bit dark and I don’t want to be stuck here and have to spend the night in the woods, especially if Dennis Hopper and his friends are lurking out there, chuckling quietly.

We open the bonnet and poke around. It seems clear what is wrong – there is a dingly-dangly thing that is not connected to a pokey device, which means the engine is stuck on maximum RPM. We make some abortive repair attempts, but it needs a man with a tool.

Theremin music drifts from the woods.

With nothing else for it, we decide to forego engine control for the journey home. We work out that there are only two T-junctions to negotiate and some stretches of single track lane – the steering wheel still works, and we have the option of either turning the engine off again or waving our arms to warn other road users.

We hurtle off, a fast banjo soundtrack playing in my head.

Lucky with the traffic at both junctions. it works a dream, and we drift to a halt in front of Short Tony’s garage door. We sit for a moment in quiet reflection. I am still gripping the seat.

“Fancy a beer?” he asks.

It has been windy.

Short Tony and I decide to go collecting wood in his Land Rover.

Land Rovers are the bestest transport ever. There is something about being in one – the smell, the harsh ride, the history, the Englishness, the sense that you’re riding in the purest and most uncomplicated combination of a diesel engine and two seats, the utter dependability of a won’t-let-you-down workhorse.

It won’t start so we postpone until the next day.

Collecting wood is great. We buzz round the country lanes scanning the horizon for trees that might have lost branches, then make a beeline for them, shuddering to a halt at the sight of a fallen log. Then it’s a graceful leap out of the Land Rover, some stamping, bending, bashing or sawing, chuck it in the back and we’re off again. We have constant big smiles on our face.

We really do make our own entertainment around here.

Our modus operandi is to not spend too long in one place. Neither of us knows much about UK wood law, and we don’t want a man to appear and start shouting at us.

For overseas readers I should explain: Englishmen can be divided neatly into two categories. There are those who are utterly self-confident and direct (probably the descendants of the people that put the Empire together). And there are those who live their lives in perpetual anxiety that if they do something slightly different from the norm, a man will appear and start shouting at them.

We continue on our quest, the Butch and Sundance of arboriculture.

“This bit won’t break. Shall we leave it?”

“Let’s try driving over it in the Land Rover.”

The wood survives intact, but a bit of Land Rover falls off. Short Tony shrugs, and sticks it in the back with the logs.

Continued tomorrow.

We have a disagreement.

“You make me out to be a right whinger!”

I deny this vehemently, stung by the unreasonable accusation.

“Yes you do! I only ever appear when I’m going on at you or complaining about something,” she complains.

Honestly. I could construct a whole career on writing about the things the LTLP and I argue about.

“Yes, but the whole point is that you are quite a normal person,” I explain. “And as I write about the frequently tragic episodes in my life, they tend to be the times when any reasonable person would be having a go at me.”

She does not look convinced.

“The readers aren’t stupid. They have a lot of sympathy for that,” I continue, optimistically reflecting on the selection of circus freaks that inhabit the comments box. “After all – well – I… I can be a bit of a fuckwit occasionally.”

I am quite big on self-analysis these days.

I resolve to respect her wishes this year and write positive things about her. I know that she is sensitive to being featured, but I never talk about our sex life or her ballooning weight problem or anything that would be discourteous.

She makes a harrumphing noise and returns to The Da Vinci Code.