End of the outdoor season, and we’re burning the old target bosses, after a chilly club Windsor shoot. My hands were numb. I didn’t even put in a second class score.
Some of our shot-out old bosses were Italian, caused by the Great British Boss Drought of a few years ago. They were tougher. Burnt last.
The club, stuffed with excellent barbeque sausages, gathered round and laughed and larked and drank red wine and and stared into the fire, like bands of humans have done for millennia. That glorious half-light of a damp evening, and friends, and the glorious smell of damp straw going up in smoke. As good as it gets.