Fifty Shots at Game

I stood in the centre of the room. Transfixed with all the surrounding paraphernalia and toys at my disposal. A surge of excitement was coursing through my veins faster than cocaine travels up a celebrity's £50 note.Through the floor to ceiling windows, I could see the reflection of the bright, July summer sun, glistening off the roof of my Range Rover. Blurred vapours of heat rose from its bonnet, slightly distorting the image of open farmland behind it.I hate the summer. I detest the frivolity and laziness of it. Bring on the autumn. Hurry along and taint the leaves golden brown and decline the temperature. Wash me with cold, stinging, English rain and biting frosts that enliven the nerve endings like a back handed slap from the house prefect.The gun room at Frankie Lottrell's is quite superb, adorned with lashings of walnut, sumptuous leather and polished metals. It could be a Madame's dungeon.Across the back wall I surveyed several items of temptation. All in perfect alignment and pristine. Shotguns, in 50 shades of grey, black and brown, handcrafted and engraved by master craftsmen.But then, I froze. Totally absorbed in the image captured by my eyes. She was an image of total elegance and I was transfixed instantly. Her subtle elegance drew me in like a training collar on a spaniel. I had to have her. Right then, right now and forever.Christ, I hope I have remembered my shotgun certificate.