Imogen: Well at least we managed to get you a private room.
Hermione: Much appreciated. Thanks.
Imogen: I can’t imagine anything more ghastly than being gawped at by the great unwashed when one is at one’s most vulnerable.
Hermione: It was pretty hideous.
Imogen: Anyway, how are we?
Hermione: I’m fine. Apart from having to lie face down with my bottom on public display.
Imogen: It must have been terrifying for you being dragged along by the ankle after your horse bolted.
Hermione: I thought I was going to die.
Imogen: Three fields, a stream, one cart track and a hawthorn hedge. I couldn’t keep up with you after that.
Hermione: And some brambles and barbed wire, which one hesitates to mention.
Imogen: Well all I can say is you were jolly plucky about it.
Hermione: I didn’t want to alarm Jasper or Seraphima.
Imogen: What’s does the doctor say?
Hermione: According to the doctor, a few cracked ribs, mild concussion, and a badly sprained ankle. He thinks I’ll get away without neurosurgery, but I may need a skin graft on my bottom.
Imogen: Ah, that explains why you’re lying face down. It’s usually unwise to present one’s posterior to the world. Sends out the wrong signals. But in the circumstances...
Hermione: Thank you for being so understanding.
Imogen: Anyway nothing serious.
Hermione: Only for Hugo. He’s worried about how long it will take for things to get back to normal between us.
Imogen: Quite so. Now tell me, did you enjoy everything up until the horse bolted?
Hermione: I can’t remember much about it… it’s coming back to me in flashes. Who were those awful women with green anoraks who threw firecrackers at us?
Imogen: Lesbians.
Hermione: I don’t think so. I knew a lesbian once and she didn’t look anything like them. She was lovely.
Imogen: You didn’t...
Hermione: Of course not.
Imogen: Don’t let Lord Hamptonshire hear you say you think lesbians are lovely. He doesn’t approve of that kind of thing. Very traditional.
Hermione: Why were a group of lesbians throwing firecrackers at us? Not very festive.
Imogen: They’re a tribe of vindictive sabs who want to spoil everyone’s fun on Boxing Day.
Hermione: But we were only drag hunting.
Imogen: They claimed we’d got a fox hidden to release when the hounds came past.
Hermione: Did we?
Imogen: Of course not. Perish the thought. Never in a thousand years.
Hermione: Are you sure?
Imogen: Entre nous, one of Lord Hamptonshire’s serfs was transporting a young fox to a nature reserve to live a secure life of luxury and he happened to be passing the hunt. Tragic misunderstanding.
Hermione: Did you say serfs?
Imogen: That’s what he calls them. I think it’s more polite to call them unskilled farm labourers. Vere calls them yokels.
Hermione: Lord Hamptonshire worries me sometimes.
Imogen: All the same, he saved you from being lynched.
Hermione: I missed that bit.
Imogen: He dispersed the rabble by firing shots over their heads. Oh, here’s Vere… hello Vere.
Vere: Nowhere to park in this loathsome septic tank of a place.
Imogen: I was just telling Hermione about Lord Hamptonshire scattering the mob.
Vere: Hwah! Hwah! Whiff of grapeshot and all that. Hwah! Hwah! Actually I thought he was shooting to kill but his horse wouldn’t keep still. Put him off. Eyesight not what it used to be.
Imogen: But still sharp enough for him to give the one who stumbled a good horsewhipping.
Vere: Great character Lord H. He made her squeal like a stuck pig.
Imogen: The slut probably enjoyed it.
Vere: People like that often do.
Hermione: This is terrible. I don’t believe I’m hearing this.
Imogen: Pay no heed. It’s all light hearted banter.
Vere: Absolutely, old girl. Hwah! Hwah! Boxing Day would be insufferable without a bit of excitement.
Hermione: You might have warned me it was going to be like this.
Imogen: Oh no. That would have spoilt your fun.
Hermione: I hope the unfortunate girl doesn’t end up needing a skin graft on her buttocks.
Imogen: Heaven forbid. You might end up side by side in the same operating theatre.
Vere: Hwah! Hwah! Lucky chap Hugo to have a sporting girl like you. Hwah! Hwah!
