On my last visit here - really, only about three weeks ago, but it seems like a lifetime - my father asked: "who'll feed Foxy when I die?" I think you know the answer to that one, for now. Not only was there still a large pack of cans of - errrr - cat food in the cupboard (wouldn't dog food have been more nutritionally appropriate? I expect cat food was on special at Waitrose), but I am supplementing this with stuff that I'm never going to eat in the freezer (sausages rolling around loose in there; packets of lamb hot-pot).
Ray maintained the fiction that there was only one, singular Foxy. I've seen up to three at a time, but the boss fox is certainly a gorgeously fit mid russet brown, with thick fur: he's on the left. I was working at the dining room table facing the window this afternoon, and suddenly there were two of them play-fighting outside, and then scampering around the garden. I told them they'd have to wait a few hours.
The strange texture is due to the fact that the insulation in this house is decidedly imperfect, and that means that condensation builds up on the windows: in turn, that does weird things to focusing ...
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