That morning, I strode purposefully through the portals of the old family pile, knowing that I was about to make a difference. I was armed with a considerable amount of soft cheese and a pair of pink jelly shoes. Hidden from prying eyes by the kitchen garden wall, I packed most of the cheese into the hollows at the backs of my knee joints and smeared the remainder into my hair. Taking care to conceal my beautifully polished Chelsea boots in a plaid shopping bag I keep behind an old privet hedge for this specific purpose, I forced my feet into the jellies; not only were the shoes rather tight, but my mild, anticipation-induced perspiration had rendered my feet a little sticky. Now was not the time to be put off by tight and incongruous footwear, however. Ensuring I was adequately shod, having secured the little plastic straps and buckles, I set off once more, heading across the lower field into Blimpton Wood, a route guaranteed to throw all but the most persistent and accomplished pursuer off the scent. By rather circuitous means, I arrived on the outskirts of Throgmere-under-Panda a little before eleven o’clock. A creature of habit, I stopped in a ginnel, to toast a teacake on my Blewitt. I consumed my elevenses with relish, washing it down with two drafts of home-brewed troffle.
Having cooled my Blewitt off in a nearby beck, I returned it to the poacher’s pocket of my windcheater, from whence I had retrieved it earlier. I checked the wind direction by means of my portable flabskit and made for a back-alley with which I was familiar.
Five minutes later, having attained my objective without detection, I settled down behind a an old water-butt to await the arrival of my unsuspecting quarry.
To be continued…