Hunting Season

What Ho Proles!

This weekend, I’m taking a break from scribbling up the first draft of my political memoirs in order to spend the day chasing foxes across the county. Of course, we’re not hunting foxes as such, but a few of the local proles have agreed to get scented up in exchange for a few coins at the end of the day. Can’t say I think the blighters will put up much of a good chase. The only thing they have in their favour is that they’re far too scrawny for the dogs to bother tearing to pieces. Still, so long we give them enough of a head start, we should get a ride out of them so far as to get a bit of red into the Murgatroid cheeks at both ends.

But isn’t this just the problem with the anti-hunting crowd? They don’t understand the psychologies of those of us who live in the countryside. And they don't think of the poor children who will go to school next week feeling ostracised because they’ve not been smeared with the blood of a fox, when all their chums have had the pleasure in years gone by. It’s damn cruel to make these poor innocent children suffer. Damn cruel. Let’s uphold the countryside traditions, say I. Refuse to bend down to the townies who know nothing of our ways. The children demand their warm blood!

Ah, I hear the horn calling us to gather. My Man had misplaced my riding crop this morning, but, luckily, I have a few lying around the house so there should be no need for a horse to go unflogged today.

Tally ho!