Thursday, January 4

The Pheasants are history

Thought I’d better do something about the dead birds hanging in the shed… And discovered it can be quite therapeutic, sitting on the floor, out back, in my £9 jeans and £100 wellies, plucking pheasants. It took longer than anticipated, but I managed a reasonable job. Filled a fair sized sack with feathers, before handing the two corpses over to Gil Grissom (the memsahib) for one of her autopsies. I’ve a sneaky feeling they’ll turn up on tonight’s table, surrounded by Camargue rice and a savoy cabbage.
As it was a pleasant day I strolled down to the Kwik-E-Mart for a newspaper and pint of milk. Contrary to my earlier assumption, the return journey is actually seven miles and not five; and at times - usually about the six-mile mark - I fondly recall the convenience of Mr Owodunni’s corner shop, situated a mere fifty yards from our old homestead in South London. Then again, I wouldn’t have the sort of views I do now, across the fields to High Willhays on Dartmoor.

No comments: