I trot into the cottage to inform the LTLP. She will be delighted at the news.

“And where the fuck are we going to keep it?!?” she yells at me. Honestly – any psychologist will tell you: there is ‘practical,’ and there is ‘paralysed into total inaction by a pathologic need to raise silly objections about every little thing.’ Sometimes I think she tips over into the latter category.

Short Tony, Len the Fish and I have agreed to buy third shares in a cow, with the objective of saving money on beef. It is a smart scheme in this economic climate, the sort of idea that demonstrates clearly why Norfolk is thriving whilst Greece and Italy totter. Beef must be one of the major outgoings in this household, and if we can cut our beef bill then we will be in clover, as opposed to the cow.

“We will freeze it of course,” I reply.

We examine the freezer, which is a smallish one connected to our fridge. It is not like it is totally, absolutely, completely full. There is a bit of space between the sausage meat and the ‘Smarties’ ice creams (on offer), and the peas could probably be flattened out a bit.

“How big is a third of a cow?” asks the LTLP.

I am at a bit of a loss as to this. “Well a cow is…” I make a sort of cow sized shape by stretching out my arms and waving them out. She eyes the freezer with some scepticism.

“Don’t forget that a lot of animals are mainly fur, so are a lot smaller than they look,” I add.

Truth be told, the freezer has been badly packed, and will surely offer some more space following a reorganisation. In addition to that, the cow is not due for at least three weeks, and so there will be time to consume much of the contents therein. Not shopping for the next three weeks will save us shedloads, in addition to our cow steakholding.

If it is possible to close a fridge freezer with an ominous air, she does it.

“You will enjoy it when it arrives,” I insist.

“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.