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Sunday, 22 February 2015

In which One is still flollopy in the extreme…

hunt one

Although One was flollopy in the extreme, One didn’t wish to miss the final meet of the season and so off we biffed in our Barbours to observe the splendid spectacle.

Now, One knows that some of you Dear Readers will be against such barbaric sport, and indeed ‘tis a banned barbaric sport, but One simply adores the v English sight of the horse and hound.

Any road up, there we were in the middle of a very windy and cold field…

‘Looks like that big black cloud has moved off,’ opined One to the A of the F, when the heavens opened and a thunderous hailstorm began.

Fortunately One was positioned next an open horse box and nipped inside for shelter.

The A of the F, with an attempt at humour that would have seen him severely admonished if One had have been chipper in the extreme, popped into the horse box, blew on me nose and attempted to shove a carrot like device in between me bit.

Chilled to the bone, we repaired to the hice and quaffed whisky and port whilst rubbing body parts various in order to thaw them out.

One had to be taken home when One began listing to the left and was in danger of falling face first into me sausage roll.

How long does that general anaesthetic last fer fecks sake? 

 

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