“Ram it in harder!” urges the LTLP.

I thrust with all my might, but the drain rod remains ineffectual. My heart sinks a little at this, as it seems obvious that I am going to have to use Plan B, and to be honest Plan B appeals about as much as being rushed into hospital with lethal tropical penis-rot to discover that prior to each operation the surgeons like to help the patient relax by performing a karaoke duet of Deep Blue Something’s ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s.’

Ten minutes later, I am lying on the ground beside the drain, groping around with my hand to try to break up a Hoover-dam of solidified turd.

I have rigged up a clever system to protect myself from the turds – a bin bag wrapped around my arm up to the elbow, and sealed around there with strong tape. I am quite pleased with my ingenuity.

A little later I will discover that bin bags contain loads of funny microperforations. It is quite clever really – they are tiny, tiny holes that you can’t see with the naked eye and that do not let refuse leak out, but that allow the passage of e.g. turd juice and aromas inwards, up the arm, under the fingernails etc.

I console myself by thinking that it is at least not so bad when they are your own turds, or those of the LTLP, or all the people who have visited you for the past few weeks.

Scrabbling away with my arm in the sewage, I am distracted by a voice.

“Hello, would you like to enter the lottery for the Air Ambulance?” says the voice.

I look up to see the Air Ambulance Man, with a clipboard and a pen. “Five minutes of your time,” he reassures.

I hesitate. I do like to support the Air Ambulance, which I normally do by the means of saying things like ‘I do like to support the Air Ambulance’ in casual conversation. He waves his clipboard at me. I would like to explain that I would be delighted to, but filling in a form is currently impractical due to me scrabbling away at solidified turds, within a bin bag that is gradually filling up with distasteful matter.

“I’d be delighted to,” I say. “But I am currently scrabbling away at solidified turds, within a bin bag that is… well, try Short Tony next door,” I say.

To his credit, the Air Ambulance Man accepts this cheerfully, giving no indication that should I ever need their services they will eject me at a random point over the North Sea, the last thing I ever hear being a cheerful refrain of ‘Yooou sayyyy… we have nothing in commm-onn…’

“I’ll head next door then,” he replies.

The Air Ambulance Man heads next door. I continue with my scrabbling around, my arm both cold and worryingly warm. Suddenly there is a breakthrough and the barrier of turds shifts and then implodes, causing a week’s blockage to hurtle through into the septic tank. I slowly withdraw my arm and stand, dripping yet triumphant.

Two weeks later, Short Tony knocks on my door. He has won over a thousand pounds on the Air Ambulance lottery.

Run! Run! Run!

Up the hill, past Eddie’s house. Eddie is walking back from the Village Shop, and flashes me a sympathetic smile. Run! I plod onwards, motivational running music (John Denver) blasting from my MP3 player. A familiar red van approaches – it is the Postie. The Postie leans out of his window and shouts something; I cannot quite make out what it is, but it sounds a bit like ‘HAHAHAHAHA.’ I run on.

Len the Fish is walking his dog as I reach the crossroads where I turn towards the duck pond. Unfortunately, he is heading the same way as me. This gives me a dilemma, as I haven’t seen Len the Fish for ages, and would like to say ‘hullo,’ but if I stop then my legs will fall off.

I jog on the spot for a moment, whilst I attempt to summon some breath to explain this to him; in the end I manage to emit my ‘hullo’ and run on. Len the Fish laughs good-naturedly at my running – he knows nothing. I press on, past the duck pond. The ducks laugh good-naturedly at my running.

Before too long, I am home. Tired, but content with my achievement.

“The thing is,” I tell Big Andy later on, “Child #1 now wants to wander up the road to the playing field and play cricket and stuff, and I find that I am wheezing and exhausted and out of breath. And then we reach the playing field, and it goes downhill from there.”

“Anyway,” I continue. “I am determined to lose weight and be a bit more healthy.”

“Another cider?”

“Thank you.”

The following day, I go swimming with the rest of the family, despite the fact that I hate swimming and can’t really swim. I force myself to do two lengths, one after the other. Having played bowls the previous night, this completes the triathlon – my own personal iron man challenge. I can feel aches in my shins, my arms, my bowl-delivery hand. But it will be worth it.