Mrs Down's Diary - February 3

What was I doing there? Part of a ladies beating team that's what; standing in for all the schoolboys who could not be allowed another unauthorised absence to go on their Dad's shoot, and students who decided for once in their academic life to actually attend a few lectures.

Although our friend's farm is where Holly, our springer spaniel was born, we did not take her with us. Instead we took Pip, our seven month old Labrador pup.

She is not a bit gun-shy and gets very excited at the prospect of a day out on a shoot.

She is not expected to do any work yet, but she is getting the hang of retrieving and John gets her to mark and pick up a bird or two at the end of a drive. He could not however control Pip and shoot, so I was elected to take Pip on her lead on each drive.

Hopeless. All she wanted to do was to get to John.

Wherever he was. As a result, my steady tramp through the woods, picking my feet up over the briars and brambles, turned into an undignified dragging session.

No wonder I couldn't keep my balance.

Every year we do turn and turn about on each other's shoot. This year was our turn to go to Shropshire.

It's a very casual do and usually an occasion for me to have a day off with my friend Joy, truffling round bookshops and antique fairs. But not today.

"They're short of beaters" came the agonised call, "Would you mind desperately if....." well yes I would but no I said I didn't.

As a result today I am aching in every limb, scratched all over my face, bruised, battered and beaten.

And I helped with the demise of quite a lot of poor pheasants too. I don't mind John shooting, I'm delighted with the selection of game in my freezer, but I don't like to see the birds meeting their end in a hail of pellets. Bit contradictory I suppose.

When John and I were first married he actually bought me a 20 bore shotgun and I went for shooting lessons at a clay pigeon school with a couple of friends.

I never could understand the concept of giving lead to the clays, never held my gun right and was always getting a bruised cheekbone form the kick of the gun. Poor instructor. He certainly earned his fee.

The best bit of the lessons was the lunch we all went to at a variety of country pubs.

I'm afraid my attempts to rival Annie Oakley didn't last long.

And I just could not put the gun up to kill anything other than a clay bird. Certainly not a real one.