“And there will be a special traditional English lovers’ Valentine’s Day dish waiting for you when you get home.”

I conclude the telephone conversation with a flourish. She is so lucky to have me, I reflect, as I adjourn to the kitchen to prepare stuffed sheep’s heart.

Honestly, she will be overwhelmed at the effort I’ve gone to. In fact, it is quite likely that I will get a shag.

I have never had sheep’s heart before, but the book insists that it’s edible, and before long I’m stuffing away like John Leslie in a French convent school. It is funny how the chambers fit your fingers like a glove puppet. I play with it a bit.

“Helloooo, Mr Heart!” I say in a funny squeaky voice.

“Hello Jonny!” it replies, whispering in my ear.

I realise that I am being immature and slide my fingers out. It is tight and very moist – honestly, if it were a bit warmer and I were a pervert, which I am not, it might have occurred to me, which it didn’t, that if I were on my own, which I was, but I wouldn’t be later on, that it might act as a substitute, well not ‘substitute’ exactly, but that is to say it’s a moot point anyway, as I didn’t, and anyone who thinks I did doesn’t know me at all, as I didn’t even think about it.

I continue stuffing. (using my hands).

Again, I have huge guilt pangs about my sheep. I still had not given up hope of reviving it, and it has been in the freezer now for over a week. (As rich Americans know, you can pay to have your body deep-frozen and it will bring you back to life).

But now I will have to give it an artificial heart. I will have to make one out of Lego.

And some crutches.

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