The back of Geordie's old lorry was tipped up about as much as it was going to go without removing the roof of Marcus's nice new shed, but about a quarter of the barley was refusing to budge.
The pig farmer happened to wander in at that moment, seeking a minor favour.
"Malcolm's young and athletic," said Marcus with a remarkably straight face, "maybe he can help."
So it was that 15stone of pig farmer, shovel in one hand, rope in the other, was slithering up and down the virtually grip-free floor of the back of lorry, set at 45 degrees. Having landed on my arse several times, I managed to reach base camp and, with a few shoves of the. . .err. . . shovel, dislodged the recalcitrant grain.
As I swept the last out (Marcus hates waste) I was reminded of two sounds - Stuart Hall's laughter and the click of a Health and Safety Officer's red pen.