Christmas Eve. Back on the home acres. My father threatened to shoot me when I showed up, until I reminded him that I was his son.
"Ah, yes. You are the elder one, are you not? Or are you the one who went native at agricultural college? Anyway, come in, you squinting idiot. You want money, I suppose?"
He evicted old Longbottom from the his tied cottage this morning. He'd blundered into the bear traps we set for the poachers and lost a couple of limbs. "Damned annoying, of course," my father said, " but a double amputee is no damned use to me. The estate has to stand on its own two feet. Which is more than Longbottom can do, come to think of it...
"He stood there weeping in the drizzle with this ugly children and ugly dog, as the bailiffs did their work. Blubbering and snivelling like the worst kind of Spaniard. I despair of England sometimes."
On Monday we ride down to Somerset for the Boxing Day Badger Shoot. Tomorrow I'll probably just stay in and watch crap on the electric television. It's a family tradition.
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