I used to see urban foxes from my back window on a regular basis. More often than that, I would hear their yelps and screeches in the dead of night. It's been a while since that noise has pierced the stillness of Old Town's quiet hour. Had pest controllers reduced their numbers? It seemed as if the only interruption to my slumber was going to be inept car thieves from now on.

Last night a vivid sunset appeared through my back window. I went off to get the camera, opened the window, and took yet another picture of the colourful embers at the end of the day. For a while I stood looking out, enjoying the scene. Swindon was peaceful, without the traffic noise or drunken shouts you normally hear in the early evening.

The movement in the alleyway caught my attention. At first I thought it was a cat, striding confidently down the cinder path between the stands of tall grass and brambles either side. As the animal emerged into the yard, it was clearly not feline at all. It was a fox. A young one, almost emaciated and strangely suggestive of a small deer with a ridiculously bushy tail.

Where did this one come from? Most likely it found a home in the overgrown back gardens along the way. Can I get a photo of it? Obligingly it sat in the yard doing foxy things. With some haste I began to set the camera for an optimistic long shot. My camera is not well suited to accurate zoom photographs but nothing ventured, nothing gained.

I think the fox spotted me in the window. With the cunning you expect of the species, it calmly headed for the brambles along the fence and vanished into the old college site. Well good luck to you, youngster. You'll need it.

Help Required

I've received a letter from the council. More specifically, from some bloke who got that job in development & planning I applied for some time ago. And now he's asking me for ideas on how to improve the area I live in? Cheek of the working class. Maybe he ought to take a wander around and see for himself.

Feral Instinct

A couple of days ago I trudged up the hill to the corner shop that stays open all night. It's rather like an american 7-11 store except you don't see any guns pointed at shopkeepers, and the women behind the counter never acknowledge your existence, never mind wish you a nice day.

Now my favourite tipple is cider and having not indulged that particular passion for a while now, I felt the urge to do so. Let no-one doubt my british ancestory. Whatever next? Stumbling up and down the hill shouting loudly at night? Depositing curry and kebabs on the pavement in various states of digestion? Making colourful scribbles with a spray can on every available vertical surface? Smashing car windows?

Workshy

I bumped into Miss T yesterday, or more accurately, she nearly ran me down on her bicycle. Was it something I said?

She asked me if I'd heard from KS, my workshy colleague from when I was on a placement at the department store earlier this year. No, I hadn't, and she told me that he's broken a limb. Not sure whether it's an arm or a leg that was broken. Not that it matters. By all accounts he still plays football so he's happy. I know the lad's keen on kicking footballs around, but with limbs in plaster?

At least it gets him off work. And off the streets too. My first thought was to advise parents that it was finally safe, while KS recovers from his accident, to unlock their daughters and let them roam free. You just know it isn't. I can only imagine the lengths KS will go to to get laid now he has a plaster cast for the girls to feel sympathy for.

Perhaps that's unfair. The poor lad is genuinely injured. Unlike the claimant a couple of days ago who phoned his boss to tell him he was still at the Job Centre and was going to be late. He didn't even apologise.