… apparently. Spring has arrived and with it ickle lambs, unhindered by any brainpower whatsoever, flock and gamble all over the railway tracks. They were – as the driver explained in deadpan tones – the wrong type of sheep because even his ASBO graded horn failed to shift them.

Eventually a bloke turned up with a shotgun, a vat of mint sauce and a butchers van and we were soon on our way again.

That’s a lie. Probably.