Not as funny as it used to be

For Mother’s Day, we (‘we’!) decided to visit a local National Trust property, a deer coursing lodge just over the border in Gloucestershire. The lodge was built in the 17th century for a clearly hideously rich man so that he could entertain guests with this sport, apparently a precursor to horse racing, being quite simply an opportunity to bet on one of two dogs chasing the unfortunate deer for a mile down a narrowing field. Interestingly, I learned that the deer usually survived, doubtless to be put through the same trauma again although on occasion it would become that evening’s dinner. The lodge was typically grand, kind of like a portable stately home with massive fireplaces, high ceilings and the kind of repulsive portraiture so beloved of monied people of old.  I once worked for an organisation which held meetings in a fancy chamber which had two vast Gainsboroughs displayed, allowing me ample time to peruse them and to conclude that they really were atrocious, with tin