Algie thinks it very remiss of his wife Emma to call him a grouse tart, though he could have sworn she used the word whore. Hasn’t he spent 40 years damn well keeping a (slightly sagging) roof over all their heads, sending their ‘three peas – Poppy, Penny and Pippa – to Cheltenham Ladies and generally keeping the good ship Snodworthy-Ffiennes on an even keel?  

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So what if he sucked up to that dreadful oik Derek, who made a fortune from office furniture, and now owns three grouse moors? How on earth do you think you get invited to have a crack on one of the world’s greatest shoots? Yes, OK, on reflection, perhaps it was a bit craven to have a cashmere tweed gilet made up for him, complete with mink-lined collar, but it did the trick.

That day in the Lammermuirs was one for the ages, grouse going like greased lightning, coming straight at you for hours, bang, bang, bang, starbursts in driving winds that almost knocked you down, and that bird at the end of the day. A real screamer. ‘I’ll never........

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