Saga of a woman old enough to know better who lets her life be governed by the ridiculous hobby of breeding and showing dogs, musing on life, the twenty first century, Cameron and his mini-me, and the occasional sheep.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007


I waited in all day for a delivery but I might as well have been on the moon. No post, no parcel. Total isolation.

In the evening my friend, who comes to take me to train ing class, phoned.

"I`m on your road, at the derelict house but I can`t come any further. There`s a fox."

Was I being besieged by a rabid monster?

"No it`s dead. Lying across the road. I can`t drive over it or I would - well, it would be squashed.."

I plodded up the road with a pair of rubber gloves. Yes, a very dead vixen lying right across the road. Dead probably for a day. I removed it, to the great disappointment of a lot of flies.

As we went on, a thought struck. I asked if she thought the cadaver was the reason why I had had no post and no parcel - indeed no-one at all that day.

"Of course," she replied.

Am I missing something here? Or have I been completely hardened by country life?

Or do I possess the last pair of rubber gloves on the planet?

Well, they should be worth a bit.

I should advertise them on eBay as "slightly foxed"
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