Goodnight Tessa Waugh’s hunting diary, plus our cartoon “The Final Straw”
Organising the annual shindig has turned Tessa Waugh into a local pariah, as persuading people to turn up proves more challenging than asking them to water-ski naked in the North Sea
‘The words “hunt ball”
seem to be toxic’
THE other day, I was speaking to a friend, Emma, about the word “no”. They have builders working on their house and life is merry chaos. To get to the washing machine she does an assault course, Bear Grylls-style, swinging off power cables and through holes in the plaster with the dirty pants and towels strapped to her back.
Emma explained that if she commits to anything beyond these necessities she will lose her marbles altogether. The word “no” and the power to decline is playing a vital role in protecting her sanity. I was thinking about this conversation as I fired off another round of messages about our upcoming hunt ball.
Another friend, Frances, and I organised one a couple of years ago. It involved a lot of hard work, as these things do, but it all paid off. Basking in success and forgetting what it took to achieve, we decided to repeat the effort in two years’ time. It is now two years’ time and I am rueing the day we made that decision. One little word — “no” — would have saved us a whole load of hassle.
IT is not the organising that’s the problem. Two former masters are generously providing the venue, the disco man is booked, the food is sorted. It’s getting people to come that’s the nightmare. The words “hunt ball” seem to be toxic. Say them out loud and people get that look that screams, “I’d rather be anywhere than here,” or stare at their feet and dance an awkward little jig in the hope that you will go away. Anyone would think I’d asked them to go dogging or suggested naked water-skiing in the freezing North Sea.
It would be lovely if you could just put the invitation out there and watch the ticket requests roll in. Instead it is a slow war of attrition, as anyone in sales will tell you; calls, follow-up calls and emails. At least three acquaintances are ignoring me. I guess they won’t be coming. What next? Walking down the high street with a sandwich board and a loudhailer? “I don’t think people want to go to hunt balls anymore,” I said to the hunt secretary’s wife as we sat on a hilltop watching hounds at an ungodly hour of the morning.
“We’re not near any big towns or cities; most of the people who hunt with us are over 60,” she replied with customary clarity.
What should we be doing instead — bingo, bowling, a whist drive? Three weeks to go and it’s all to play for. I’ll keep you posted.