Saturday, September 30, 2006

Fox in the garden

Lovely aren't they? Three O' Clock in the morning, crying like babies (literally crying, just like babies), and leaving their mark on my back garden.

When I say their 'mark', I am referring to what can only be described as, well, poo.
It may be a trifle indelicate, depending at what time of day your are reading this. You may be scoffing your enormous breakfast having just watched Bill Turnbull on Breakfast Telly. You could be partaking of a little caviar on toast as part of your elevenses or 'brunch' (don't we all). You could be doing just what I have just done, i.e., got the shovel out of the shed and headed straight for the little blighter's doings.

"Nappies!!", I hear you cry. Well, have you ever tried to catch a bloomin' fox? I for one have never, (and it won't happen), tried to potty-train a carnivorous mammal of the dog family with a pointed muzzle, bushy tail and typically a reddish coat (good description, uh?).

Please, please, please send in some comments on this one. You've been a tad quiet of late. Even the silly comments have dried up. What I want are suggestions as to how to avoid this **** appearing in my garden in the first place. Lovely they may be, these foxes, and I don't particularly want to treat my missis to a new furry wrap for Christmas (animal rights folk don't bother to write in - only joking). All I want is to look out onto my garden on a crisp November morning without having to think. "Bloomin' Eck" (or words to that effect) and dive for the shovel.

Mind you, notice that it's always MY job. The missis will have none of it. "No", she says "it's men's work". Funny that, she usually believes in equality.

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