Len the Fish passes round the plate.

“Potted head, anyone? It’s just the head boiled up then formed into cubes.” I take a piece and smother it in mustard. It is very nice; in fact it is the best potted head that I have ever tasted. The remainder of pig rests glumly on the table whilst the audience looks on.

Len the Fish has been booked to address the W.I. next year, a prospect that, as a reasonable man, fills him with terror. The LTLP accordingly offered to allow him to practice his butchery demonstration in our kitchen to a crowd of assorted friends, who are less likely to cut up rough than the Institutionettes, who can be notoriously fierce – especially when there are knives.

“The Toddler would like this,” I offer, munching on my head.

Eddie fires up the great cogs and pistons of the sausage machine as Len the Fish starts making incisions. Meanwhile Short Tony is told to start skinning in order to produce some crackling for a starter. A hundredweight of potatoes go into a stockpot ready for boiling.

Three hours later we are all tucking into the most home-made meal of bangers and mash that you can possibly think of. There are rolled joints, and a bag of sausages for everybody to take home.

At this point I realise in alarm that we have turned into the smug people at the end of cookery programmes where they all sit down at the table and make complimentary remarks to the chef for the benefit of the camera. It is a horrifying thought. Fortunately the mash is a bit soggy, so I can say so and break the illusion.

There are two pieces of head left. I offer them round; there are no takers, so I bung them in the fridge. Having finished a crate of Broadside we decide to go to the Village Pub. I would stay for the LTLP’s tidying-up demonstration, but there is nothing worse than people looking over your shoulder when you work.

A few months back I wrote a short piece about non-stereotypical Iraqi Arabs Abdul and Mohammed, who were trying to work out how not to get murdered.

Their problem was that because they’d helped out British soldiers in trying to make their country a bit less murdery, they were sort of in for it when it transpired that the Allied demurderfication process was proceeding slower than expected. Iraq’s a bit like that. I mean, you might think that your neighbour gets a bit huffy when the leylandii sneaks above twenty feet, but that’s honestly nothing compared to how cross the militia get if they think you’ve done a bit of translating for a platoon commander from Lincolnshire when he steps up to the front door of somebody who he believes is involved in potential carnage.

Blogger Dan Hardie has spoken to a couple of these people on the telephone. Not Abdul or Mohammed (they don’t really exist, and besides, Abdul is on O2 and the reception is terrible in Basra). No – real, live, genuine people in Iraq!!! They DO exist, and they can use telephones and drive cars and stuff!!! This was a bit of a revelation to me and would be all wondrous if it wasn’t so depressing.

I’ll let Dan take it from here.

I stare at Mrs Short Tony in some confusion.

The previous night is surrounded in some haze. I know that there was a raffle up at the Village Pub, and a very nice girl singer, and some beer. But as far as I am concerned it was a sensible and early night.

“Yes,” I affirm with some resolve. “He definitely had them when I left him.”

I would have noticed if he hadn’t, I decide. Plus it was a night of an arctic nature, and there was the odd passing car that would have hooted or something. Mrs Short Tony shakes her head very slowly from side to side.

“Short Tony has lost his trousers,” explains the LTLP to the Toddler, who is wondering what is going on. The Toddler gives everyone a Basil Exposition type look and goes back to her plotting.

“He had them on when we reached our drive,” I recall. “He must have lost them between the bus stop and your house. That’s  -” I do a quick mental calculation – “one hundred yards?”

“I’ll go and look for them again.”

“Check the bus shelter,” I offer. “And what about the chicken coop?”

Mrs Short Tony disappears to check the bus shelter and the chicken coop. I think about writing a notice to stick up in the Village Pub, but I would not wish to expose Short Tony to ridicule.

“Are you sure he had them on when you left him?” interrogates the LTLP.

“Yes,” I reply, less sure than I was before.

There is a short silence before I round on Mrs. Short Tony crossly.

“You’re always doing this,” I complain.

The LTLP fixes me with several eyes. “What,” she asks, very very slowly and carefully, “have you bought on Ebay?”

A few hours later, Short Tony and I are outside in freezing conditions constructing a chicken coop.

Clearly we want to have the best chicken coop in the village. Therefore ours is more professional-looking than Len the Fish’s, more spacious than Narcoleptic Dave’s and less townie than the Chap Over the Road Who Has Yet to be Given a Name’s. There is a suspicion that Big A’s might have the edge on the styling, having been constructed by a genuine farmer; however ours is situated in more varied landscape with a choice of terrain on which our hens can frolick. Nigel’s is more of an aviary, and Paul doesn’t really have a coop as such, just a bunch of chickens who have chosen to live in his garden.

It is also flat-packed, which causes some difficulty over the next two hours. The instructing diagram is gibberish and we are so cold that using a screwdriver is physically painful. There is one point when we decide that it would be quicker to wait for the chickens to evolve opposable thumbs and let them build it themselves, but after two flashes of inspiration and a short argument as to whose land the egg collecting bit will sit on, we are done.

I am the proud joint owner of a working chicken coop!!!

My aim now is to search high and low for somebody without chickens, so that I can offer them eggs as a neighbourly gesture.

And get some chickens.

Almost two years ago to the day, we moved into Narcoleptic Dave’s place on a temporary basis, having instructed the Methodical Builder to construct an extension to the cottage.

The whole project went extremely smoothly (apart from the stairs collapsing under the LTLP, her getting electrocuted by the sink, the window being forgotten by the bricklayer, CORGI wishing to prosecute the gas installer etc.) and only took a little bit longer than promised, so I can have no complaints. And finally, it has arrived in the post: my building regulations certificate!!!

The two final things that I was ordered to do in order to comply were as follows:

• Change the hinges on the upstairs windows. The hinges did not open wide enough. It is important that your upstairs windows open very very wide, so that if there is a fire you can flee via the medium of leap;
• Put bars across the upstairs windows. Because the windows are very low due to short people in the eighteenth century, it is important that you put bars across your upstairs windows in order to prevent people from falling out.

Being quite safety-conscious I was happy to go along with this. I would hate to fall out of a window and/or be burnt to death (or even a bit). Obviously there are a couple of practicalities that I am mulling over, however. I cannot work out whether it would be better to leave the bars there but position a screwdriver on each windowsill, so that as the toxic smoke starts creeping under the door one can frantically start unscrewing the relevant bar, hopefully achieving this before death occurs.

Or would it be better to remove the bars, but keep them handy, so that if I trip up and find myself sailing towards an open window I am able to grab one with a spare hand and very very very quickly screw it into place to prevent defenestration?

It is an impossible dilemma. I might have to email RoSPA for some guidelines. Meanwhile the Toddler uses the bars to swing herself up onto the windowsill.

It is possible that the LTLP is right, and I am drinking too much. But she constantly loads the dishwasher incorrectly, and who is to judge which is worse?

“I’m just going to the bowls AGM,” I plead, when she makes an aside about me going out once more. “It’s just a meeting.”

On my return there is a certain froideur between us, as she examines my leg injuries with a critical air.

Personally, I blame the constant pressure of the government targeting me as a middle-class binge drinker for my binge drinking. But whilst they are at risk of causing a backlash, I have to admit that I might need to cut down a bit. The problem is that my own drinking is typical of many peoples’ in that I drink to get over an underlying problem; in my case this being that I find it difficult to get drunk otherwise. It is a catch-22 situation.

I went to Tesco this morning. “Not got your whisky this morning?” asked the cheerful assistant, which came as a bit of a shock to be honest. I have bought whisky a couple of times before (not just for me), but to be identified by a stranger as a regular 8.15am Scotch purchaser was a jolt. Later in the conversation she asked me how my chef’s job was going, but the revelation of this a case of mistaken identity did little to improve my peace of mind.

After Christmas I have decided to be teetotal. There is no point in me trying to cut down, I must just bite the bullet. It will not be fun, but I am determined.

Anybody who has ever tried to write any form of comedy will tell you that it is the best feeling in the world when you write a really funny joke.

I am incredibly pleased with my joke. It is a lightbulb joke!!! There are so few new lightbulb jokes. I check all sorts of combinations of the words on Google to ensure that nobody has written my joke before, and I discover that is totally original and funny!!! It is a slight twist on the traditional lightbulb joke angle, it is politically hard-hitting and contains universal truth. Hahahaha!!! I rock!!!

Anybody who has ever tried to write any form of comedy will tell you that the next stage is a waft of depression as you try and try and try to find some way of working your new joke into the fabric of life; be it casual conversation or an entry in an internet private secret diary. You rack your brains. You examine every situation from every angle. You try everything. It is frustrating.

I am still worrying away at this when I arrive to pick the Toddler up from her nursery.

“It’s a dad! A dad!” There is a cry from inside. It is two of the fit nursery assistants who are struggling with something and need my help. One looks over at me and asks – not one word of a lie:

“We can’t reach. Can you help us change this lightbulb?”

I am gobsmacked by this. I look at them, look at the light fitting, look at the lightbulb. There is some comedy god looking down on me. Not only will I get to tell my joke in the most natural and casual way possible thus making the fit nursery assistants collapse with fits of laughter and think ‘omg omg he has a sense of humour as well AND he can provide for me by being taller and changing the lightbulb’, but I will then be able to report the incident to the readers of my private secret diary as an amusing story AND shoehorn in the joke. I take the lightbulb from her gentle hand.

The lightbulb slides easily into its cavity whilst the girls watch on. I wait for my moment; the optimum time to tell my new joke. When you have unbelievable fortune, sometimes you can get carried away and blow it by ruining the timing. I push hard and twist in the bayonet. They clap, in a girly way.

I open my mouth. There is a knock on the glass door. Another parent turns up.

“How many…”

“Mummymummymummymummymummy!!!!!!!!!!!!”

All hell breaks loose as a small child hurtles in to the foyer and grabs the centre for attention. I try to continue: “neo…” but the moment is lost. Booooooooo – I will never get a chance like this again to tell my funny new joke. I collect the Toddler grumpily and drive home, looking for dark buildings.