The fox by the bins wants a word about the weather, says he’s worried about its accent and its veiled intimations. He’s worried about bacteria in standing water, and about the banned additives that still find their way into the food chain. He’s worried about his wife and their golden, red-eyed children, and, he says, he’s worried about me, about how I work too late at night and how I don’t know what to do when I stop. Are you eating properly? he enquires. Are you keeping hydrated? He dips a dainty paw into a patch of something sticky. Have you listened to the weather lately?
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Oz Hardwick
Photo Nick Victor
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I too commune with the foxes, cubs mainly, playing in my garden. They seem peeved when I set up with my laptop on the sunbed, so they are banished to the wild undergrowth, berry feast out of reach.
Comment by Tracey Chippendale-Gammell on 11 August, 2024 at 8:29 am