Spiro and Agnew have headed off on the first stage of their odyssey towards kebabhood. The imperturbable farmer Pat, who has been the hero of not a few of our ventures in animal husbandry, has taken them off to be sent to the abattoir with some of his own beasts. Am I sorry? Not exactly. After Pat, Mrs Pat, Miss T’s mum and I had run round the field for half an hour trying to catch the bloody things, the words which sprang to mind were ‘pass the mint sauce’. Pat in the end was several too many for them by creating a mobile temporary fence from a role of beast-wire with me as a mobile temporary fence post in the middle of it. Horrible beasts; they were disobliging to the last. They really had become enormous – fat and scant of breath, like Hamlet; after half an hour of springing round the field they were puffing and blowing like nobody’s business, and starting to limp, so the Gamekeeper was obviously right, their feet were starting to go, though they showed no sign of discomfort in their normal life of lolling about the field, eating. I think it is almost certainly far too complicated to retrieve bits of them – as I understand things, it’s either all or none, and I can’t get a whole sheep in the freezer – but far from feeling sentimental about their little black faces, I would find myself contemplating a segment of roasted Agnew (or Spiro) with some satisfaction, as a list of their crimes unscrolled in my memory.