Shimmy shrugs. It’s a shrug that contains two thousand years of unspoken insults.

‘This was the spot you chose,’ I emphasize.

Another shrug.

‘If the corpse wasn’t so bloody huge …’ I grumble.

Another shrug.

‘You said you didn’t want to risk disturbing one of the other animal graves further back in the garden, remember?’

(And there are many of them. As Head Undertaker I should know.)

Another shrug.

‘Well if you think you can find a better spot …’ I mutter, trying (and failing) to disguise my irritation.

Shimmy remains silent. I honestly don’t know how Carla copes with the old bastard. Poor Carla (the little tart. With her flirty ways. And her damn sauna). Maybe she doesn’t?

‘How about I cover him up and then we drag over one of the larger pieces of corrugated iron from behind the sheds,’ I suggest, ‘lay it across the top for a while until the badgers lose interest?’

Shimmy sighs. ‘A pig remains a pig!’ he murmurs. ‘A chazer bleibt a chazer, eh?’ and then, ‘Argh!’ he exclaims, with the very next breath, his face contorting with pain as he bends forward to grab his right leg which suddenly seems to have gone into spasm.

(Good one! A medical emergency! Looks like that loose guttering in Iden isn’t getting dealt with any time soon.) I toss down my spade (and it is my spade. I’m providing my own equipment today because Shimmy’s misplaced the key to the padlock on his main shed) and stride over to support him. I am loaded with insults for my trouble (My pleasure!).

‘Did you take your tablets?’ I ask.

‘I took my tablets, idiot!’ he shouts.

‘Well at least let me help you get back into the house,’ I persist.

After a short (and unsuccessful) attempt at walking himself (a man has his pride, after all. Yes, and – like you – I’m pretty sure that there must be a great Yiddish expression to illustrate this point more colourfully than I’m able to, but for once we are to be spared from it), Shimmy accepts my arm and we stagger into the kitchen together. I settle him down into his favourite red vinyl-covered armchair (which lives there, by the old black fireplace), then turn to grab a low stool (he likes to suspend the foot when it’s troubling him) and he kicks out his leg ‘involuntarily’ and delivers me a hefty swipe on the back of the knee with it.

‘Bloody hell, Shimmy!’ I exclaim, almost collapsing head first into the sink.

‘Forgive me, bubbee,’ he mutters, forlorn, ‘forgive a foolish old man who just lost his best friend in all ze vorld! Mein klein Rogue, eh? Mein klein khaver, eh?’

Next, the waterworks (standard Shimmy), but with the leg constantly kicking out as if it’s playing its own happy little game of football, while the rest of him sobs and grizzles way back in the stands.

I busy myself filling a plastic bowl with cold water and then add some ice to it from a couple of trays in the freezer. After a minute or two he finally calms himself down and the leg stops its kicking and merely twitches. I carefully remove his sandals (Shimmy wears sandals summer or winter, rain or shine, to keep the feet cool) and roll up his trouser-leg, then pull the bowl over, gently place his gnarled old foot into it and do my best to hold it still.