I've been thinking some more about the Christmas turkey. I didn't tell you the whole truth, my beloveds.
It came from Henry's Delicatessen in as immaculate a condition as it is possible for a turkey to achieve, given that its gizzard has been stuffed up its cloaca and its naked body snapwrapped in clingfoil (or should that be clingfoiled in snapwrap?).
But as soon as we unwrapped it and removed its innards outwards, its legs came away from its body in a most unseemly way. As it lay, naked and uncooked, on the table facing me, the splayed legs were positively indelicate. I immediately thought of stirrups, if you catch my drift. The ladies of the house looked at it too, and I could see that they were equally incommoded by the raunchy spread of its plump drumsticks.
Inner flesh, sorry, in a flash, they had the beast re-trussed and into a tray ready for roasting. I, as males of my generation tend to do, thought it best to withdraw. Thus it was that I had nothing more to do with the turkey until it was ready for eating.
I am a soft-hearted person, but I did not feel sorry for this bird. That initial laxity of the limbs was unforgivable. On the other hand, when the ladies of the house said that they intended to give it a regular basting while it was cooking, I thought that was taking revenge a step too far.