The Honourable Society of Odd Bottles began proceedings with a report on the activities of our junior branch. These youngsters are not yet eligible to become drinking members, but they are chosen because of their unremitting hostility to vermin and their burgeoning enthusiasm for killing game.
Young Charlie, the Nimrod of his generation, has been prodigiously active. It is surprising that there is a single grey squirrel still alive in Somerset. Any rat that comes his way goes no further. He is also mightily effective against rabbits and pigeons, which he enjoys scoffing, after he has skinned or plucked them. Charlie has inherited a .410: the fifth generation of his family to use it. It is a notoriously fickle calibre, the excuse I always use when I miss with one. To kill, you have to be dead-eye accurate, which Charlie is. It may help that the gun is a Purdey, a beautiful piece of kit. Craftsmanship in the service of sport, a poetic fusion of aesthetics and weapon-hood, cherished over the decades; this is not just a shotgun. It is a piece of England.
Florence, his intended bride, cannot wait for the stalking season and her visits to the gun room. Her parents are postponing the tearful moment when they will have to break the news. At the age of six, she is too young to shoot a stag. But she has wielded an air pistol with joyous success, though so far only against a target. There will be rapid promotion: vermin beware. Her mother, a toothsome little minx who looks too tiny to handle a gun, is rapidly emerging as one of the best female game-shots in the country — and not just female.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in