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.