"Anxiety Number Three."
"Returning to my uneaten meal, everything has gone cold.
My host, a member of this club, suggests
he take advantage of his private walk-in fridge
so that we might sample the rare meat selection
freshly stocked each day.
He comes back with a large white plastic box
and passes it to me.
Prising back the lid, I see various anonymous grease-proof
paper packages, some cellophane steaks,
and in the corner something pink and agitated
suddenly joined like a twin.
My host looks me in the eye and says,
door mice, ready shaved for the pot."
And you're peckish.
[LAUGHTER]