Forget about the countryside. When is the government going to do something about the vulpine creatures wreaking havoc in central London? The situation is now so out of control, it’s time the Prime Minister convened a meeting of Cobra to discuss the ginger menace.
I’m talking, of course, about the horde of SNP MPs who’ve invaded Westminster. Actually, I’m not, but I couldn’t resist that gag. No, foxes are the problem. I don’t actually keep a chicken coop in my back garden in Acton — and, for that reason, I’m spared the sight of my beloved poultry lying in a pool of blood with their heads bitten off. But I still have a long list of complaints.
First, there’s the appalling sound they make, particularly during the mating season. When I first heard one of these vile beasts at full cry, I ran upstairs in a panic, convinced that an intruder had broken into my house and was now torturing one of my children. The noise of a howling fox is uncannily like that of a human child in pain. It’s guaranteed to produce a momentary spasm of reflexive alarm even when you’ve heard the same bloodcurdling shriek every night for the past ten years.
Then there’s the threat they pose to domestic animals. I used to have a black, short-haired cat called Trixie which I rescued from an animal shelter and loved almost as much as my own children. Then one day she simply disappeared. In the months that followed, as I trawled the neighbouring streets searching for her and became acquainted with the local cat-loving community, I discovered that I wasn’t alone. West London is in the throes of an epidemic of missing cats.
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