I write on the Glorious Twelfth.

A few of those with more moolah than brain cells shall be popping a left and a right from their butts on windswept northern moors at pretty much nothing. A crack at the grice! Pass me a cigar and slap my Labrador.

Should a brace of heathery feathery grouse come my way then I shall be jolly thankful indeed.

I might have to pay 15 quid for a bird from the butcher, but the chap who shot it probably paid a grand! Overcook a grouse at your peril. You want it still squawking slightly about the breast. And go heavy on the bread sauce. Yum.

Nothing much glorious about August so far, and to me the 12th heralds the beginning of the end of the summer.

As any fule kno, the official end of summer is the Ludlow Food Festival, the second weekend of September.

This year - by the way - the Food Fest is shaping up pretty nicely with some cracking guests coming along including Shaun Hill and Elisabeth Luard. Proper food people who don’t flash it about on the box.

Anyway, the weekend after the official start of autumn I’m going off to Bra (actual place) in Italy where summer will still be going on.

Some sort of cheese festival or Bra jamboree or whatever. Not really that fussed, it’s a freebie and I’ve been invited along by my cheese dealer.

And who can turn down a free trip to Bra on an Easyjet from Luton? Exactly. All the glamour, thanks very much.

When I return, autumn really will be upon us and it will be time to turn our minds towards Chri…Only joking.