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Influenced solely by the title of the track from: ‘Songs from the wood,' by Jethro tull.

It was a crisp, October morning in the English countryside. And although the sun was shining, it must have moved away; more distant as is the time of year. For as the huntsmen and -women, along with their mounts, breathed out, their breath was marginally noticeable. Getting my servants to hand out tots of rum, to warm our insides, we quickly knocked them back and awaited the off from Sir Anthony Smithe, a close friend of my husband who is the lord of the manor. "Tally ho," soon goes the cry, accompanied by the blare of a horn, as another weekend day's hunt gets under way. Leading after the hounds is my husband, Lord Andrew Seymour, a podgy man, some 20 years my senior.

The dogs bark, and the horses neigh as they canter along. Holding back some, as I have a game hunt of my own in mind, I let the others follow after him before joining the pack. Before long, and as the hounds catch sent of their prey, and give chase, their followers start to pick up speed. After some moments of casually following them I take a left veer; heading into a denser part of the woods, for a rendezvous with three strapping young men who regularly give me a mount on their turgid cocks.

Leaves, a mixture of red, brown and gold, cover the floor, and occasionally fall from the trees, as I pick my way through them. My ...

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