The hounds, as seen by One and photographed by the A of the F, yesterday in the square as the Chipstable Hunt biffed off to frighten foxes (not kill them, of course, in case it upsets anyone living in Islington)
Any road up, One, resplendent in the de riguer uniform of the countryside, the Barbour and the Hunters) sashayed up the square at around ten o’clock, having levered the A of the F off the futon with a pick axe handle) to be informed by S in the pub that ‘they don’t leave until 11.00am’) One had forgotten that in the passage of the moons that had taken place as One systematically bolted to places various and eschewed Wivey.
We repaired to a settle with a couple of lukewarm cappuccinos and had a peruse through a comic someone had left on the table. One believes it was called the ‘Sun’ and it sported pictures of young women in their vest and pants and more than a sufficiency of information regarding football, and whether persons various were ‘gutted’, or it’s apparent polar opposite, ‘over the moon.’
We took up the position to get the best shots outside the Courthouse and braved a veritable deluge of precipitation which in the shake of a lamb’s tail had turned One’s otherwise sleek and perfectly coiffed bob into a big, curly mop that dripped seductively down me face and streaked me non-waterproof massacre. Fortunately One is congenitally gorgeous, what with One appealing in equal measures to both Man and Woman, and One was still the belle of the bollicks.
The turnout of followers was rather sparse. Even Princess P was nowhere to be seen. As for the participants, apart from the Master and the other posh blokes on big horses the assemblage was entirely female, mounted on beasts varying from beautifully groomed mounts to scraggy little ponies.
Whilst One isn’t entirely sanguine about the ripping apart of one of God’s critters (unless it’s for pie filling) One finds the sight of the hunt in flight a wonderful and peculiarly English sight. As they galloped off into the distance that other peculiarly Wivey phenomenon took place: a massive queue in the Co-op for bottles of scotch and fags.
We. of course, made up the numbers and then biffed off down Silver Street to put our feet up and moan about what was on the telly…