I watch Jonathan with the chicken for a bit longer. “You’re not stuffing it. You’re fisting it with a lemon.” And after two years of working for him and more than two weeks of living with him, his facade finally cracks, and he laughs properly. I’m not sure if I’m more shocked or he is. “Seriously?” I say. “I’ve been treating you to my wit and northern charm since the third of December and fisting a chicken is what gets yez?”
