Well it certainly wasn’t me, although I think the fly, with his little eye, knew a lot more than he intimated. There has also been a coq up at the morgue, as this is no more a coq than mine is a kipper. Clearly this is Poulet Robine. The upshot is that my previously declared sentimentality for the baby cows in the woods has turned out to be worth less than a fig. The plucked anonymous shape of “la pauvre Robine” led me to deny her recent sentient vigour, allowing me to continue my self delusion that no creature had been done in to satisfy my carnal needs at Sunday lunch. I’m becoming more and more Augustinian in my beliefs, craving virtue and self denial, but not right now. So another chicken bites the dust. Am I full of remorse as I slice courgettes and tomatoes for tonight’s dinner? Probably as full of remorse as I was as a child at school when saying a few decades (pace sorore mea) of the rosary in repentance, realising that forgiveness had opened the floodgates for a little more sinning. That last arcane remark clearly illustrates that Catholic public schools should be kept out of the reach of children.