As I was driving up Pellon Lane out of Halifax this morning, a juvenile fox ran across the road in front of me and leapt on to a garden wall. It was a fine, healthy looking beast.
I hadn’t seen a fox for ages. They tend to hang out more in towns than the countryside these days, so being in town this morning will have increased my chances. Thinking about it, I’ve only seen one fox in Hebden Bridge since I moved here almost 18 years ago. We were looking after Rosie, Pat’s cocker spaniel, at the time, and I’d taken her for a walk up Burlees Lane. It was Rosie who spotted the fox, not me. We stood and stared at each other from a respectable distance before the fox turned and trotted away.
Come to think of it some some more, I’ve also only heard a vixen’s nighttime mating call once since I moved here. It was on my very first night. I lay in bed, listening to her alarming screams. The screams lasted for about 15 minutes before being curtailed by two shotgun blasts. Which presumably goes some way to explaining why foxes seem to prefer our towns these days.
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I finally finished decorating the back bedroom late in the afternoon. My right wrist is completely knackered. ‘Only one undercoat and two top-coats required’ ranks up there alongside ‘I’ll do it tomorrow’, and ‘the cheque’s in the post’.
