Mrs Down's Diary

We had friends Alan and Steph and assorted members of our family staying. Alan was shooting as John's guest and Steph was doing whatever she was told. Which was to come on the first two drives with me, drink as much sloe gin as we could with decorum during the morning break and then slope off to the spa for a swim and relaxing afternoon before the evening meal.

Terribly wearing but much better than the mass catering always called for with the family around. I left them with a casserole in the Rayburn and told them to get on with it.

Steph eyed with suspicion the red flag she was called to wave during the drive.

"I hope there are no bulls around here" was her first statement. Then a mass of queries on how to wave with style.

Once reassured that the style was more of a flap than a waggle she was away, whooshing her flag through the air with far more enthusiasm than me, in order to keep the ducks up in the air.

I have to admit to very mixed feelings here. Those ducks were my babies. John and I had reared them from a day old, attended to their every quack, kept them well fed and watered, and now everyone was shooting at them.

My flag wave was more of a limp wristed flutter and flop than the majestic slicing of the air waves that was going on all around me.

"I think I've let too many of the ducks get past me," Steph wailed.

"Good," I thought. More to get away. "Don't worry Steph, they don't want too many shot on the first day," I lied. "That was the best thing to do."

But my philanthropy to all things feathered was not taken as far as it could have been this week.

A friend whose business is centred on egg production for medical purposes such as flu vaccines, was having his annual turn round and cull of hens.

The hens live in huge barns and I had asked previously that when the time for new stock was taking place, could I reprieve some of the old hens and bring them back to the farm for a free range life.

But, now the time had come, I did not have enough room in our hen house for them. Our very own chick production explosion amongst the bantams meant there was no space in the hut, and no practical alternative.

The only other possible hut has a bantam sitting a clutch of guinea fowl eggs for me, and I don't want a dozen tasty guinea fowl lunches jeopardised.

A friend who had taken on two dozen of the hens last year also had had little success in saving some hens from cat food production to life in the open field.

"It was my own fault really," she said "I just presumed they would know immediately to go out in the mornings and back into the hut at night.

But they didn't. They just wandered around like lost souls and went to the top of the list for fox food within a week."

A production fault meant that last week's Diary was a repeat of the previous week's. We regret the error and any disappointment caused.