It's got a kick at the end

'Be careful! It's got a real kick at the end!' shouted our red haired, Yorkshire born, home counties bred hostess. It was the evening before I was flying out to Istanbul and I was at the grounds of a country mansion, and this was happening in the interval of the open-air play that our hosts were hosting for charity- for the new Ashmolean.
Just before the play had started, I had noticed a face I knew and could not think who it could be that I knew among la belle monde. But before I could push the brain cells further the play had started and I, as usual, totally played along with Wilde. In the interval the hostess, my friend's friend, took us into what her father had called 'Africa' before the revels had started ('For the gentlemen, if the port-a-loo queue is too long, there's always Africa', and when we were introduced and he realized he could not kiss me- the octogenarian- he had said 'Ah, local customs and all that') and then there we had it, the slinging rope, down you went from the tree house and just before you thought you'd hit a big tree, it would stop, right after a big kick.
And when my turn came, I did not even hesitate- my hands hurt and the kick almost threw me to the ground. And then I remembered. The face was that of our late warden's wife, who'd served us lunch in her kitchen.