To the rear of fortress Balham lies a railway, on top of a bank. Not the kind that has money in (or doesn't, in my case). This bank has foxes in it, making their den amongst the Japanese Knotweed. At night they sound like people getting murdered in some heinous fashion. Or maybe there are people getting murdered in some heinous fashion, and foxes just happen to live there. I'm not entirely sure, but I'd like to think it's the foxes making all the racket.
Lots of people hate foxes, long suffering Dilly included. But then she's of the huntin' shootin' fishin' persuasion, and they have some funny ideas. Personally, I like them (the foxes, not the hunting brigade). I like the fact that there is wildlife in the middle of London. I like the fact that I can see a rather beautiful large mammal going about its business from the kitchen window. I like the fact that sometimes they sunbathe on my sun lounger. And I like the fact that the cubs sometimes come right up to the back door and try to look inside.
In fact, the only thing I don't like about them is having to get up at the crack of sparrow's on bin day to put the rubbish out. Because if I do it the night before, the little b*ggers rip open the bin bags and spread the contents all over the street.
We talk a lot about human activity affecting the behaviour of animals. But what about the other way round, eh? To me, the biggest problem with urban foxes is that they make me get up early on Wednesdays.
And that seems like a small price to pay.