FOR FOX SAKE

I found myself driving like a doddery old dear as I leant forward with my nose squeezed flat against the glass and my eyes screwed up like currants, trying to see through the cascading waterfall that had become my windscreen. Suddenly, as I tried to navigate a speed bump without ripping the sump from the underside of my motor, something flashed out from the side of the road and stopped right infront of me. I slammed on the anchors and felt the blackheads in my nose squeeze out a little onto the windscreen as I was pushed forward with the sudden braking force.

Caught in the white beam of my head lights and looking at me a bit funny, was a beautiful red fox. This wasn't a mangy, moth-eaten scrag end of a pathetic creature that regularly raids our bins; this was King Fox. He glared at me defiantly and I swear he even puffed his chest out a bit. This was SAS fox.

What struck me most about him (I assume it was male because of its size), was his beautiful coat. The soaking rain had given it a sheen, lending him the appearance of a polished conker. His long tail trailed behind him, its fur flattened by the weight of the water.
As my engine gently throbbed and the wipers squeaked back and forth, he stood stock-still, giving me the evils.

A bright flash lit up the interior of my motor, signalling the approach of another vehicle. I couldn't go anywhere because King Fox was giving it large, blocking the road ahead. I beeped my horn but instead of scaring the beast into fleeing the scene, he just yawned at me, as if to say, "Yeah. Whatever, mate."

After a series of longer beeps and frantic 'shoo-ing', he finally turned and swaggered off like Liam Gallagher, out of the road, throwing me a last glance over his shoulder. Through the howling wind, I think I even heard him sneer, "You aint worth it, mate."

It got me wondering as to whether King Fox was the bounder responsible for chewing the tongue out of a leather workboot I had left on the front doorstep, and the theft of one Adidas running shoe, also from said doorstep. I have no idea why he might be interested in my footwear. Maybe he has cold feet. Or maybe it's something more sinister?...

Next time I find myself walking from the station on a dark night with the wind driving the cold rain into my face, I will have an ear out for King Fox, stealthily sprinting up behind me in a pair of Adidas running shoes.