PS: A warning to all fox lovers. An animal was harmed during the making of this story. Harmed beyond the point of repair whilst crossing a road. But then dear reader, nature is cruel - especially when it comes in the form of an impatient London motorist.

As it turns out, the next time I saw fox he was dead. Dead I tells ya. Statistically speaking, he may not have been the same fox but my vengeful brain ignored that unsatisfactory truth. For all intensive purposes, Justice had been served. Served I tells ya.

As I walked passed the body and examined its twisted head which seemed to be staring at me from an awkward angle - I felt a sympathetic pang. A pang I tells ya. Okay, I’ll stop that now. Now I tells ya!

“The Fox is my enemy. The Fox is not my friend.” After a few repetitions of this mantra I re-aligned myself with dark side and celebrated one less vermin in Grey Old London.

I marched on to work but Fox still lingered in my conciousness. He was gone but not forgotten.