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It was a lovely day today...really warm (18.c). I had a nice long sleep and got up late. I had a cup of tea and something to eat while sitting lazily on the bench outside...I'll go for a walk in the country, I thought. Somewhere not too far. So, I drove down through Little Hay heading towards the village of Hints. A gentle cruise along country lanes, windows down, rural smells lifting my spirits (yes, I know it's just cow poo... but for some reason it smells good....well no, I don't think that's strange..ohh it's just me then!), not a care in the world...AHH, SCREECH, BANG...FEAThers ("oh, the humanity")...
'Baby faced' micra claims another victim. I pick up a floppy pheasant. "Might be just stunned" my inner child remarks. Laid out on the embankment (in the recovery position), I sheepishly drive off; mirror, signal, manouvere, hands at ten to three (might be someone watching).
A lovely walk, lakes, hills, skylarks, views, buzzards...all is forgotten.
On the return drive, the horrors return. A familar stretch of lane, skid marks. I'd better check to see if it woke up alright. Damn, still there. Gentle shaking reveals an unhopeful 'stiffness'. Feelings of guilt are quickly alleviated when as I drive off, yet another pheasant sprints suicidally towards the car. An emergency stop, and angry remanstration with the chap results with its speedy exit. This week as last, the machette will do its stuff, the feathers will be plucked and I will realise that dinner does not always come in a vacuum packed, non suffering convenience tray.
'Baby faced' micra claims another victim. I pick up a floppy pheasant. "Might be just stunned" my inner child remarks. Laid out on the embankment (in the recovery position), I sheepishly drive off; mirror, signal, manouvere, hands at ten to three (might be someone watching).
A lovely walk, lakes, hills, skylarks, views, buzzards...all is forgotten.
On the return drive, the horrors return. A familar stretch of lane, skid marks. I'd better check to see if it woke up alright. Damn, still there. Gentle shaking reveals an unhopeful 'stiffness'. Feelings of guilt are quickly alleviated when as I drive off, yet another pheasant sprints suicidally towards the car. An emergency stop, and angry remanstration with the chap results with its speedy exit. This week as last, the machette will do its stuff, the feathers will be plucked and I will realise that dinner does not always come in a vacuum packed, non suffering convenience tray. 
