. . .

Jane gestures over her wide collection of goat-related memorabilia. There is a figurine of a billy-goat, and also a t-shirt depicting a concert which had had a goat. Also, there is a dictionary. It has the word ‘goat’ in it. This is really the best collection of goat-related memorabilia that I can describe.

“As you know, Martin, goats are a revolutionary organic method of recycling that has recently become available in many residential areas in Gloucestershire. They’re cheap, efficient, and so easy to use that even a child can use one — which’ll come in handy, as I myself am a child! But most of all,” she says, and here her face becomes solemn and even sorrowful, “with goat-based organic recycling, you’re giving a needy, unwanted goat . . . a new home.”

“A goat is a big responsibility,” Martin wavers.

“I ate a pancake, didn’t I?”

“Aww,” he says. “My little civilization-saver.”

He traps her head and neck with one arm and he ruffles her hair. She squeals and wriggles away from him. She snarls. She snaps her teeth. Martin sticks out his tongue, puts his hands up, and backs away. “Fine, fine, I’ll get you a goat so you don’t have to separate the recycling. Geez.”

But he doesn’t!

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