We live in a small mid-terrace house in urban west London. There is a small extension to the living room which has a lean-to glass room. Just above the highest point of the sloping roof is the window of my wife's office. A month ago, she looked up from her computer to see foxy staring in at her three feet away through the window. He languidly strolled away when she banged on the glass. Round here, the fox population is completely fearless. The rumour is that they wander down the Metropolitan line tube tracks from leafy Buckinghamshire, drawn by the lure of discarded hamburgers and overflowing rubbish bins. You are only allowed to put out your sacks of rubbish a few hours before the bin men arrive on Tuesday morning. In that short period, any bags with meat scraps will have been well and truly eviscerated. They have adapted well to urban living but I believe that the experts say they have a much shorter life expectancy than their country cousins due to mange. Some of them do look pretty unhealthy but others are quite magnificently sleek, bushy and bright-eyed.
) but I wouldn't have wished such a demise on her.
