We decide to buy a sheep.

The economics of this are sound:

Four legs of organic lamb plus lots of lamb chops plus two shoulders plus belly, neck and all the other funny bits = lots of money;

A whole sheep = £78

I speak to the man, and he assures me that it will come already dead and shorn and stuff, and he will even cut it up into the various appropriate joints (see above).

Otherwise it would look odd in the freezer, and would be awkward to get in the oven.

Plus, I will be sharing it with Short Tony, and I didn’t fancy having to saw it in half myself, like some dead and skinned ovine Debbie McGee. I am still trying to work out what gives me the best deal – if I should take the front half or the back half, or split it sideways down the middle.

Presumably, I get slightly more if I get the side with the heart. If anybody knows which side this is then I would be grateful to know. I don’t actually like those offally bits but there is a principle at stake. Plus I guess it would come in useful if I ever want to build a monster.

(Note to local readers – I do not necessarily want to build a monster, it would just be nice to have the option. Plus you should never rule anything out in life. If anybody wishes to donate their body to me then that would be useful.)

I have a Very Important Meeting tomorrow. Which means I won’t be here.

Back Tuesday.

I go to hospital, with my arse problem.

I have an appointment to see Norfolk’s premier arse specialist. It has been arranged for several months – do not worry, it has not suddenly flared up again.

I park at the hospital car park and pay my £2. It is better that the hospital raises money like this rather than taxing people, as I was able to make my own choice whether to drive or use one of the myriad public transport options available from the village.

As I walk in I feel fine, but the hospital is currently hosting an epidemic of Mysterious Vomiting Disease, which is a bit alarming. I rub my hands in the special disinfectant gels provided and sit and wait my turn. People keep getting up and leaving the waiting area, but I can’t work out whether they are being seen by the doctor or running out to vomit and then dying in horrible circumstances, like on The Andromeda Strain.

I casually keep my hand over my mouth.

The waiting area is full of broken legs and things, as the arse chap also does other bits of the body. Everybody seems to be a pensioner instead of me. My name is called, and they look in curiosity at the person who isn’t called ‘Albert’, ‘Doris’ or ‘Wilfred’.

“Now you see – your condition can normally go one of three ways,” explains the specialist. “It can either get better all by itself.” (This sounds encouraging). “Or you can find that it gets worse by itself.” (Less so).

“Or else it can just stay the same.”

I thank God for his medical expertise.

After explaining that I’ve been feeling fine for the past few months, I lie face down for him to give me a healthy prod. Discomforting, but not painful. And he officially pronounces me cured.

I am joyful, and leave with a spring in my step.

“You are NOT buying that!!!”

“What?!? Why?!?

“Put it back.”

Normally I can think of several things that I would rather do than joining the post-Christmas Oxford Street bargain hunters. Accompanying Robert Mugabe to a Stereophonics gig, for example. However, I have promised that I will go the whole day without moaning. It is my extra-special Christmas present to her.

It is therefore unfortunate that she is being so negative about a rather snazzy T-shirt I have spotted.

“It’s really good!”

“Put it back.”

It is bright red, and depicts two ladies engaged in a lesbian leather bondage session. I have quite an eye for fashionable clothing and this garment caught my attention immediately.

“Where, precisely, would you wear it?”

“Out!”

“Out where?”

“To the village shop,” I reply lamely. “And next door.”

Her stare could best be described as ‘withering’. I explain that these T-shirts are clearly all the rage, and that Selfridges is a very trendy shop indeed, and would only sell artistic stuff and nothing tacky. Indeed, it is a good reflection on how far our society has come that the ladies are empowered to be featured on T-shirts and are not forced to conceal their practises underground.

She forbids me to wear it outside the house. I am both surprised and disappointed by her homophobia.

“It’ll be good for wearing onstage,” I explain at the checkout.

“When, pray, will you next be going ‘onstage’?”

I pay for the garment, feeling good that through my action we are one small step closer towards being a more equal and tolerant Britain.