My war with the foxes continues.    

Just the other day the sanctity of my breakfast - eaten outside on a warm spring morning - was violated. Perhaps the crunching of my cereal attracted the beast or just a misguided perception that he was invited for a quick cuppa; but there it balanced precariously on the fence with it’s tiny vermin eyes watching me munch on my cornflakes. I chinked my spoon on my bowl loudly but it stood firm, perhaps thinking I was about to make a speech in it’s honour.

Next, I hissed. It did a double take and retreated a bit along the fence. Calling me out for the snake fraud I clearly was he began to edge closer once again - giving me a noxious smirk-glower. Rage began to descend.

Slamming the table with my fist and rattling my seat like I’d been hit by a mini earthquake did the trick, but at the expense of my coffee.

Fox scampered away into the next garden and I mopped up the spillage.

It was a bitter-sweet victory and one that I knew would be short lived. Fox would be back. I didn’t know where and I didn’t know when but I knew our paths would cross again.