WMD

It was with characteristic wit, and a wicked smile, that my neighbour Mr Perkins christened the gunning punt taking shape in my shed under close guard, video surveillance and a pack of fierce Dobermans. Personally I see little wrong in sneaking up on water fowl in low-slung punts at crack of dawn, crouched in wet bilges, shivering in the icy wind that whistles in from the North Sea for hours on end with only a Thermos and a pork pie for company. Hunting doesn't get harder than this, and mostly after the smoke and din has died away the scene, I am told, is not so much one of carnage, but mockery as the intended victims make their winged escape, honking noisily in derision at the poor damp sods beneath. So, here's how she looks as I write, what Chris calls the Weapon of Mass Destruction, or should that be Duck-struction...?