‘So it’s a choice of gay, builder’s or posh?’ I confirm.

‘I’ll have ze gay tea, pleeze,’ says Virginie, winking at me. ‘Limon and geenger eez my favourite.’

‘Builder’s for me,’ I say.

‘Well, as we all seem to be staying in character when it comes to our choice of tea,’ Ralph pipes up, ‘I’ll have posh.’

Rose

Of course, it’s packed out. People are queuing as if they’re trying to penetrate the Harrods china department at the beginning of the January sale, and standing two-deep down the sides.

There’s always an enjoyably municipal sense of occasion about the memorial hall in the village, with its curtained stage for am dram productions, its little bar off to the side and the antlers sprouting off the walls at intervals with important wooden plaques underneath saying, ‘Killed Cloutsham Ball 1927’ or ‘Killed Spodden’s Hatch 1949’. There are big wooden ceiling-height doors at the back, lofty enough to admit a haywain, which can be flung open to admit views of hills and dale and gusts of our fine Dorset air. Today, the doors are shut, as it is a raw February day, and windy, the sort of weather that makes the eyes water, the lips thin and the nostrils pinch.

I sit next to Mimi, so we can together monitor the door to see who else is filing in, and where they’ll sit. Mimi is looking pale, and wan, poor lamb, even though she is the curly ruddy type. ‘I hope they keep the door open,’ she whispers, sucking on a mint, which again is unlike her, as she usually complains about being too cold, not too hot.

Henry Pike and Biddy, plus Martin Thomas, the second whip, are in the front row already, as you would expect. With the hunting arrests, they are sharing equal star billing with Dick Turbine, which is Ned Bryanston’s new name in the village. Behind them sit the Hitchens, who have closed the Stores for this occasion, Dr Ashburton, Garry and Debbie from the pub, and Scary Gwenda from the stables. I nudge Mimi to alert her to Gwenda’s upright presence.

Her bearing reflects her ranking status as a horsewoman and active member of the foxhounds and staghounds at this occasion, which has been called partly to reflect outrage that the natural order of things has been reversed, and huntsmen rather than their quarry are being held at bay.

Behind them, in other rows, are the men in uniform: flat caps and Tattersall shirts, maroon or green V-neck sweaters, and Hunt ties showing a gold pattern of gun-dogs or antlers against dark-green backgrounds. I spot Sir Michael Hutton. He has that look on his face that you often see on older members of the landed gentry, the one that says, ‘What on earth are we coming to?’