ACCORDING to Ian Fleming, you only live twice – once when you are born, and once when you look death in the face.

Far be it from me to disagree with the man who created both James Bond and Caractacus Potts, but I have definitely felt the draught from the Grim Reaper’s scythe on multiple occasions.

I have dangled over a 3,000ft drop on the end of a rope held by a callow youth of 18, adopted the brace position on crippled aircraft, had blue light ambulance trips to hospital after spectacular crashes in cars and on motor bikes and once wouldn’t let Mrs Hextol watch Coronation Street because I was watching football, so the Angel of Death and I are on first name terms.

But I do have to admit that there is a definite frisson of fear when you look deeply into the eyes of a killer with murder in mind.

It happened to me just last week, when I was in the garden adding equal quantities of black preservative to myself and the fence, to the amusement of passers-by, one of whom asked me for a quick chorus of Ol’ Man River.

The painting was accompanied by the constant clamour of blackbirds and thrushes, who gather in great numbers at this time of year to gorge themselves on the scarlet bounty of the Hextol Towers rowan tree.

Such is the fervour of the feeding frenzy that every year, a couple dash themselves to death against the conservatory window in their eagerness to reach the tree.

Of course, such a profusion of avian activity attracts the local cat population, who, to my dismay, do their very best to add baby blackbird with rowan jelly sauce to their everyday diet of Whiskas.

So, when out of the corner of my eye I saw a grey shape dive into the hedge next to the rowan tree, followed immediately by a cacophony of frantic shrieks and alarm calls, I quickly laid down my paintbrush and shook the hedge to scare the cat away before it could get the chance to complete its kill.

There was an explosion of activity from the depths of the leylandii, and to my astonishment, out shot not a cat, but an extremely angry sparrowhawk!

It was a quivering mass of outrage, from its blazing yellow eyes and needle talons to its brightly-barred chest, and I felt guilty for denying a meal to a genuine predator, rather than one that kills for fun.

With a baleful glare in my direction, the musket – as the male of the species is known – tried to make good its escape, but could not find a way through the chicken wire lining the fence installed to keep the dog in when she was a pup.

An even fiercer light gleamed in those pitiless topaz eyes – and it launched itself straight at my head.

I know it was just trying to get away, rather than actually attacking me, but I still wailed and had a little sphincter tightening moment when I felt the tip of its wing brush my cheek.

I had visions of becoming a latter day version of Kirk Douglas’s Einar, who had his eye ripped out by Tony Curtis’s hawk in the 1958 film classic The Vikings and Mrs Hextol reported I had gone rather pale beneath my mask of black Cuprinol.

I had to have a little sit down and a calming cuppa before I could resume painting.

It wasn’t the first time I had felt the gimlet glare of a predator after inadvertently denying it the meal it had worked so hard for.

I was watching a group of rabbits eating the turf in a Cumberland ghyll many years ago when I spotted the sinuous shape of a stoat weaving its way amongst the nibbling conies.

They elaborately ignored it until the little beast jumped onto the back of one of the rabbits and sank its teeth into its head, just behind the ear.

The rabbit’s death squeal was deafening, but the other rabbits just carried on eating, as if to say: “You’re on your own Mopsy.”

Then for the first time, the stoat got its beady black eye on me, and with a chilling hiss, abandoned its prey and disappeared into the heather.

For the next half hour I lay with my legs primly clasped together in case it decided to return and shoot up the leg of my shorts, but happily it never came back.

I took the rabbit home, and it was delicious.