Legally Blond

Some days, I really think I am going to give all this up. You spend weeks and months setting up complex structures, make huge efforts to get buy-in from all your fellow professionals, punt vast amounts of money to get everything in place on the target date, and then finally the date comes, the meeting begins, and you realise nobody is on your side. Indeed, you are being ritually humiliated. Shooting this is, of course, not derivatives structuring.

It was a syndicate day yesterday. Each year we get an invitation to a wonderful place where the twentieth century has been overlooked and it is still run as though Tum-tum were expected to join the guns.  So it is on with the old tweed plus fours, hip flasks, proper boots, and loaders.

A few years ago I was allocated a highly competent loader and such are her skills I have retained her services for our day each year since, having to pay more each year to fight off competing offers from my fellow guns. Yes, I did say "her". She is a highly competent loader. I think. The gun usually seems to have cartridges in it anyway. Diana is, as it happens, very pretty, very blond, and very curvaceous. She gives big hugs for skillful shooting on high birds and warm kisses for downed pigeons. Not something I would normally encourage from a loader, but here it seems to work for me.

So for this year I once again upped the daily rate - she is earning almost as much per day as I am now - and arranged to meet at the first drive.

Scene: a woodland clearing. Ancient and dirty Land Rovers and beat up Toyotas are scattered around. Dramatis Personae: A large group of men in various combinations of ageing green and brown country clothes, mainly briar and water-proof.  Eager spaniels and snooty labs. A hairy fox terrier. Enter stage centre: A procession of shiny Land Rovers and Range Rovers.

Yes, you read that right. "A large group of men". No women. No shapely bubbly pretty blonds; no Diana, to be precise.  I - for it is I - struggled out of the back of the Rangy, looked around and behind and even under the assembled multitude, but no blonds.

Various men in various shades of woodland mud made their way to my fellow shootists, shouldered their guns and their cartridge bags. Your hero stood alone, conspicuously blond less.  The shootists gathered together, ready for their briefing.

Dick, our team captain turned - if only he could execute such an elegant pirouette in pursuit of passing high pheasants - and said, smirking, very positively smirking "Ah, B...., I suppose you heard  that Diana twisted an ankle yesterday, but never mind, we know your special tastes, and have got you the perfect substitute".  Good man, Dick.  He waved at the line up of bashed beater's vehicles and a door opened. I stood a little straighter and got ready to raise my cap.

But it stayed firmly on the bald patch.  Out of a Toyota Hilux got a pretty blond, long legs, snug fitting jeans, rouged cheeks, eyes wonderfully made up.  Very snug fitting jeans, so snug, that if I had had any doubts, it was clear that this blond was male.

He strolled over to me and extended a hand which, even at this moment of crisis, I noted to be perfectly manicured. "Helloooo, I 'm going to be handling your double barrelled today". A little flick of the long blond forelock.

"Erm...oh, well, to be honest, I don't really need a loader today, just brought the one gun, don't you know"

My new blond blinked and shrugged and looked down, then looked up, straight into my eyes "But I could be so useful to you in the woods".  O-my-god.  "Er, well, I think maybe you might be more useful picking up." O-my-god; what have I just said? "Or with the beaters". Aaagh, stop digging B.

Suddenly a howl of laughter from my so-called mates behind me. "Not so keen on blonds after all, B?" Downright guffawing broke out. "Meet Damian, he's Josh the underkeeper's brother, and he is at acting school.  Diana will be along in a minute and you're paying her double rates today. You've been framed, matey."