Partridges

I write this, not sitting in the kitchen sink like my namesake, but one handed, as the other is sitting in a bowl of frozen peas.

"Why?"  I hear you cry.  "Why are you broken?  What misfortune has befallen you?"

I'll bloody tell you what misfortune has befallen me, the DC dropped a sodding great gun safe on my hand.

For those who are unaware, a gun safe is a bloody heavy, great, big, fuck off metal box, with many sturdy locks, that you are required by law to affix to your wall to keep your guns in, if you have any.

The DC doesn't have any guns, but he is most desirous of a proper gun, to shoot proper things.  I rather fancied the idea too, feeling that a spot of shooting would fit extraordinarily well into The Vision.  Thus, when I saw a second hand gun safe for sale for a bargain price, I snapped it up pronto. 

On delivery, despite having seen the photos, and indeed, read the regulations for gun safes, that state unequivocally that they must be huge sodding, thick metal boxes, I was rather disappointed to find it a grey and soviet thing, rather the exquisite cabinet of my imagination, fashioned from rare perfumed woods of the Indies and inlaid with mother of pearl and precious stones. 

As it was not pretty, I desired it gone from sight, and immediately banished to its new home in the attic.  As we attempted to wrestle it up the ladder, my dear husband crushed my hand with it, causing me great agony and a pressing need for medicinal gin.

As I sat here though, one hand in the frozen peas, the other clutching my gin, I started to wonder if letting him have a shot gun was so very clever.  For one thing, I was already maimed, and he hadn't even got a bloody gun yet.  For another, I'm not really terribly good with dead things in their natural state.  I couldn't help but think of the dreadful Partridge Incident of last autumn.

The Farmers had come to dinner, and as is their wont, had brought a slightly 'unusual' gift- three partridges, freshly shot by Mr Farmer that very afternoon.

I hastily declined all responsibility for the limp bodies and despatched the DC to the garage with them, where, Mr F said, they were to hang for 'a few days'. 

Consultation with Mr Google suggested partridge should be hung between five and ten days, so I compromised on seven, while I worked up the courage to deal with them.  I quite liked the sight of them hanging there though, and felt they made the garage look rather artistic, suspended there above the ladders and bicycles, like a Dutch still life/ modern installation mash up.  I considered entering for the Turner Prize.

Eventually however, Turner Prize stardom or no, I could put it off no longer.  I watched several YouTube videos on partridge disembowelment; donned tweed, pearls and Dubarrys to render myself suitably Country; cut them down and resolved to be strong.

Suspecting that the process of preparing partridges for the oven might be a messy one, I covered the garden table in newspaper and prepared for battle.  When I lifted the first one up, the head fell off, revealing a seething heap of maggots.  I shrieked loudly and flung it in the shrubbery, before scuttling indoors and adding several more strands of pearls to give me strength.  Extra Strong Marigolds on, I retrieved the maggot partridge from the midst of the azaleas, lest the Terror think it a convenient snackerel, and tackled the remaining pair.

I was, if I do say so myself, quite splendid!  I chopped off heads and feet, removed skin and innards, and, despite clouds of flying feathers clinging to my tweed and catching in the quantities of pearls, finally deposited two tiny carcasses in the rather ambitiously large roasting dish I had brought out with me.

Proudly I carried my trophies aloft into the house, summonsing all to come and see the spoils of my battle with Nature.  I left them on the kitchen counter while I went out to remove the debris of my triumph.

Returning to the kitchen, I was met with the most God-awful stench.  A maggoty, rotting, decaying odour, that was very quickly traced to my poor, tiny partridges, who were it seemed, a trifle past their best, due to the unseasonably warm autumn we had enjoyed.  As even the Terror was retching at the hideous pong, the partridges were despatched to join their colleague in the bin, and all the windows were flung wide to remove the lingering whiff, while I made pasta for dinner, and concocted a suitable fib for the Farmers about how delicious their kind gift had been.

All in all, do I really want the DC regularly casting little corpses at my feet, desiring me to re-enact the whole sorry partridge day over and over again?  Admittedly, if his shooting skills are up to his fishing skills, it won't actually be anything I need to worry about, but do I really want to take that risk?

I think not, on reflection.  If I can ever wrestle that fucking gun safe out of the attic, I shall put it on Gumtree.  In the meantime I am using it to store empty jam jars, just to make my position on the subject totally clear to him.