1 Man, 1 Hunter, 1 Nomad.: The Chuckling Prankster

04:00 Tuesday morning. Slipped out with the Ultra and blended into the moon lit fog. Concealed by a cloak of mist, I finally neutralised the superior eyesight advantage of the Canada Goose. Taking my time, I approached the bank of the millpond and knelt motionless. The frogs and toads were concealed all around chirping merrily. The moon was exceptionally bright (not surprising as I believe it might have been a 'super' moon) and despite the clouded conditions, illuminated the scene with an eery white glow.
It was difficult to discern where exactly my targets were located, but my patience was rewarded when a 'loch ness' type neck loomed out of the mist. With the head in my sights, I followed the targets slow, lazy path and when I was satisfied of a clean shot, I fired. CRACK! Due to the water surface, the report from the muzzle was amplified massively. The head and neck disappeared from sight and my ears were relied upon to compute the situation. Slap, slap, slap, a slow, almost rowing motion could be heard. Then a honk. Had I mortally wounded but not killed the goose? Had I killed it with one shot, but was hearing the nervous death twitch and the grief of its mate?
I think they were winding me up, and the honk was a prankster who couldn't hold in his chuckle. For when the sun rose later that morning and the mist had cleared, there were no dead geese, no wounded birds. Still my nemesis eludes me...

Later in the day, very much later as it was gone 17:00 in fact. Emma and Frances returned from their week in Stroud. Whilst nice to see they have both brought coughs and colds and I am already feeling the first symptoms of having contracted it. Thanks Guys.

Today, in glorious sunshine, I laid another row of bricks whilst talking on the phone to my best buddy Luke who has just got back from Australia. Wants to live out there and I don't blame him. I would if I could afford the flights and were in his position. As it is, there are too many lethal critters for my liking for me to comfortably carry on living the way I am. I'm sure it could be done, but I'd rather go to a country where people still predominantly live off the land and Western culture hasn't yet killed off the traditional skills.

Have finally realised our cats full name; Eira Pookilicious Lovecrust. Eira Poocrust for short. Gunna get Fran to draw up her birth certificate on the morrow and make it official. Does the cat have a say in this? NO WAY! How many of us did?