At half time I wandered upstairs, mainly to escape the bickering between my son, who regards English footballers as overpaid poofters who wouldn't last thrity seconds on a rugby pitch, and his step-mum, who would lay down her life for Michael Owen's knee.

Looking out of the bedroom window I noticed a rabbit sitting on the grass by the vegetable beds. Not unusual in itself but surprising considering the conditions resembled a scene from A Perfect Storm, with heavy rain being driven horizontally across the hillside by ferocious winds. Normally such rabbits would bolt as soon as I approach the window, but this one was sitting in the lee of the house wiping rain from it's eyes and didn't budge as I tentatively opened the window.

I nipped downstairs, grabbed the rifle and loaded, and returned to find bunny still sitting in full profile at a perfect distance. Rejecting the tempation to use the window sill as a rest I took aim freehand, waited till the cross hairs rested on the head and squeezed the trigger - bunny flopped over instantly, no jumping or twitching whatsoever. I threw on a coat and went out to find my very first rabbit, with a pellet placed with surprising accuracy in the back of the brain.

Returing to the telly I found that nothing had changed - son was referring to Wayne Rooney as Mr. Potato Head, wife was lamenting the absence of someone called Jermain and my triumph was greeted with almost complete indifference.

So pardon me for bragging, but I thought that a first rabbit, shot from indoors during the interval of a World Cup match in heavy rain was worth sharing with somebody

Paul