Real life | 28 June 2018

Finally, I got my hands on a gun. About the size of a sawn-off shotgun it was, just under 20in long, a fine specimen of a weapon. It was surprisingly light and easy to wield.

I held it and thought of all that I might now accomplish. Everything I had dreamed of could now become reality. I would right all the wrongs. I would put things in order. Oh, I would do so many things. I stood in front of the bedroom mirror and admired my reflection holding the gun unloaded, pulling the trigger to see how it felt. It felt good.

I went down to the cellar and rummaged through the boxes of miscellaneous stuff and found what I thought was the appropriate ammo: decorator’s caulk, white, smooth finish.

Getting the caulk tube into the sealant gun was tricky. I had to phone the keeper. He said that he didn’t want to talk me through cutting the end off the tube as I was sure to slice my fingers off with the Stanley knife. A few minutes later, as if by magic, he appeared.

The sound of his Defender sent the spaniels to the front door barking with delight. They love the keeper. He strides into the house bearing the heady odour of assorted creatures — squirrel, crow, rat, pheasant —and there is nothing finer to a dog than that.

He cut the top off the decorator’s caulk in one terrifyingly swift motion and put it into the sealant gun, trying to explain what he was doing. Something about cutting at an angle to shape the end of the tube so that blah blah… I know I should listen. It’s just that every time I have to learn something my middle-aged mind glazes over.