I went out into the pig shed and couldn’t hear a thing. Pigs usually make a fair racket even when they’re asleep (grunts and so forth—pigs have pornographic dreams I think), so the silence was strange.
Then I remembered that I had killed and eaten them in a gluttonous drug-fuelled rampage a couple of weeks back.
The memory brought a smile to my face and a burp to my bum. Or vice versa.
For a moment I felt disappointment that there was no actual mystery with the silent pigs. But then I remembered that Desperate Housewives was starting in five minutes and that Teri Hatcher might be in the nude or at least showing a tantalising bit of leg or something.
I couldn’t wait.