What where you doing the evening of the 8th of May, 1998?

Can’t remember, eh?

I really, really hope the cops ask me that at some stage, because I can tell them exactly what went down.

It was a typical May evening. Sun sullenly peeking through the clouds as it slowly set. All of the gas rings in use, prepping the potatos and the steamed vegetables. On the smallest ring, a pan of gravy gently thickening and bubbling to the perfect consistancy.

With a flourish worthy of Emeril, the oven is opened and a perfectly roasted shoulder of lamb is brought forth. Lifted tenderly from it’s bed of veggies, it was placed on the 150 year old serving plate and the veggies and juices sieved into the gravy to turn it from mere heavenly into ambrosia.

Drain the potatos and shove them into a serving bowl. The veggies (carrots and broccoli) come off the steam and set for a minute before being carried to the table by eager hands. The peas, of course, get a few lovingly placed pats of butter on them as they go into their own serving dish.

Everything else on the table, the glasses in each place containing their wine or wine and water, there was only one thing left to do.

Enter the lamb. Ceremoniously borne from the kitchen to its own place on the sideboard, snuggly nestled on it’s bed of parsley. Carving knife and fork at the ready.

That is when it happened. A slight twist of the carving knife and the blade hit bone, putting an almost microscopic nick in the blade.

Something I get reminded about every frigging time the knife drawer gets opened, even after 14 years.

That is the tale officer.