Last weekend’s tally is worth relating so long as you promise not to tell Sheikh Mohammed. Bob was home for a leave out and his new lurcher, Weasel, who I have been insisting to him was cute but useless, nailed her first hare so there was great rejoicing on his part even though I put a dampener on proceedings by suggesting that I had thought hare’s couldn’t contract myxomatosis. Bit esoteric for the townies amongst you perhaps.
Anyway, on Sunday evening, after Bob had gone back to school, I saw the log shed door had been wedged shut which always means some grim deed has been done and at least one animal carcass will be hanging inside, out of reach of the dogs. I had expected to find Weasels hare. Strangely there was no sign of that, but adding to my surprise, four dead partridge were pegged on a bit of binder twine obviously waiting for me to pluck them and pop them in the deep freeze. This was strange though. We hadn’t been off shooting that weekend. He has previously caught partridge almost bare handed as they ran down the furrows of a ploughed field, but these four were despatched, he admitted to me when pressed on the phone, with the aid of a folding poachers 410. He had secreted the gun about his person and taken advantage of the fact that torrential rain that afternoon meant the neighbouring estate ( where Sheikh Mo comes into the story ) was deserted by all but the hardiest souls. Bob had brought two friends back from school, one of them Japanese, the other Bulgarian and they had been dragged into this dastardly action with him. Lovely boys through they are they could not really be described as hardy souls. I think it’s fair to say this was a very different sort of weekend to the norm for these guys and I’m not so sure we will see them at Bovills again. Which is a pity because one of them was quite good at table tennis though not quite good enough…..go me! I am really excellent at table tennis. And at playing the recorder. That probably also got to them a wee bit.
Anyway, if you were wondering, Weasel’s hare turned up. I got a WhatsApp message on Monday from Sophie which conversation I wish to share with you:
S – What shall I do with the hare in my fridge???
D – Cut into bits, with carrots and onions, and make stock
S – Such fun, we can do that this evening!
D – Roll your sleeves up and get on with it you wooser
S - ****-off
Well that wasn’t very pleasant really. You probably don’t know Sophie as well as I do, but she doesn’t mince her words. How about this for pillow-talk. Not giving too much away, as we settled into bed last night after watching The Fury I commented to her how peculiar it was that she always yawns prodigiously the moment her head settles on the pillow. “I, however, never yawn” I said. “That’s because I’m not boring” was her immediate riposte.
PS. Don’t know if you are a Downton Abbey fan, but it was unfortunate that the Earl of Grantham called his yellow Labrador “Isis”. They had to put the poor thing down in the latest series. On my way back from lunch today I was nearly run over by a cement mixer on Lower Thames Street. I can’t entirely blame the driver. I had enjoyed a great natter and a decent bottle of Meinert Merlot so I was probably a wee bit distracted. I didn’t get a chance to take a photo myself, but this was the offending wagon:
Time for a re-brand I think.
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