Pheasant

Anyone who’s acquainted with my life story will know that in 1982, following the death of my dear Clive, I went into a monumental drinking spree, which was merely a continuation of my life so far. So bad was it that I didn’t notice that the Falklands War was happening. One memorable day I was standing in the rain under an umbrella, watching a parade go by. I asked a young man, “What is this parade for?” and he said, “It’s the Falklands parade.” I said, “Did something happen in the Falklands?” and he fled. In an attempt to pull myself together, I obtained - by slightly dubious means - a job cooking on a pheasant farm for a remarkable woman named Rebecca Hardy.