Clive had done it. Perhaps the most unusual supper yet, and yet so luscious. They sat silently masticating. Even the major, never a gracious guest, was restrained in his critique - just a puckered expression as he sipped from a large glass of full-bodied Grenache "you should have let me know, old boy, I would have raided the cellar".

After seven months of meeting every Saturday night, the evenings had started to get stale. Supper with the Teacher tended to be fairly boring - the unusual element, predictably, being the pudding, with offerings such as coffee jelly or courgette brullee. It was only her pleasant face combined with an endearing habit of wearing white blouses and no bra, that prevented her explusion from their Unusual Club. The Electrician was slightly more imaginative (although sheep sex-organs had featured more than once), but certainly no chef. His fish-sperm pancakes were particularly vile. But dinner with the Major was always a test of endurance, he liked to push at the boundaries of taste - so far he'd served crickets, dung-beetles, worm larvettes, and red ants. Toasted, or fried, heavily spiced and accompanied only by their hosts bullish manner and casual rasicm. His only saving grace was his generously stocked wine celler.

The Major was first to break the silence,

 "So where did you get it, old boy?"

 "Flown especially from India" Clive replied. He didn't add that he'd had to charter a plane and buy specicialist equipment to ensure it survived the journey. The total expence had been almost ten thousand pounds. Certainly worth it. Not just for the respecful awe from his dinner-guests. It tasted sublime, buttery-soft, like a good quality dark chocolate, and so rich. It was unfortunatel he wouldn't be able to get another, not from the same source. The combination of meat, wine and almost bared breast-flesh had led to an uncomfortable tightening in his trousers.

 "What's the market value on one of these?"

The Major again. Clive gave him a sharp stare, annoyed that his reverie had been interrupeted. He was starting to regret sharing such a divine food with these uncultured philistines.

 "Don't you feel guilty, about the waiting lists - I mean?" The Teacher asked, timidly.

 "Oh God no!" replied Clive, genuinely shocked at her misunderstanding, "It came direct from the" he struggled to find the right term....grower.... doner, "host. It's not for a kidney transplant. That would be terribly inethical."

 "Of course." Replied the Major, and delivered his final criticism "That's why we've only got one."