THE BOXING DAY HUNT

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My dad was that rare phenomenon – the socialist butler! Every Boxing Day the local hunt would gather at Jenkyn Place and my dad’s duty was to deliver the welcoming stirrup cup to the mounted hunters. There were a few of the local farmers and local gentry my dad particularly disliked and he would make it his mission to ensure they didnt get a drink.He was like an early silent Chaplin as  the detested farmer would lean expectantly from his horse only for my unseeing father to suddenly spot someone urgently in need of a drink on the other side of the meet. I would watch convulsed with mirth from my hidden viewpoint in the servants quarters as the red faced squirarchy squirmd in exasperated drinklessness.Then I’d solitarily take my secret mission to the back lanes and helpfully misdirect the hunt followers back into smalll fuming traffic jams……..only a small step comrades but it felt like raw naked class war to me.

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