ildfowling aside, a walked-up day in the company of a good friend and a couple of dogs is just about the best sport there is. Richard Gould and I enjoyed just such a halcyon day in early January at Flea Barn. We put 13 cock pheasants in the bag, along with a squirrel and a hare – life was good. The next day, I awoke to a nagging pain in my right arm, just below the elbow. Discomfort dogged me all Sunday – my wife even noticed the wince I gave each time I raised a glass of Rioja to my lips over our roast beef lunch. Despite the fact that I stoically waded through a second bottle, the pain continued and things looked bleak indeed. That evening I went online in a bid to diagnose the ailment. Every flex and extension of
