Foxes are absolutely everywhere in London. And, by the looks of it, not only do they never stop breeding in our sheds and the ditches at the ends of our gardens, but their chief food source is the stuff we throw away. We’re nurturing them into existence by mistake, and their population will keep growing in tandem with our own propensity for waste.
This situation has obvious downsides: foxes wake me up in the middle of the night with their deafening, girly screams, which is kind of bizarre given they’re normally so good at being covert. They gnaw at my shoes and throw them around the garden and tear anything made of leather to bits. Still, I can’t help but having a real soft spot for them – so much so, in fact, that when I bump into one I usually end up taking its photograph if it sticks around long enough.
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There’s something about foxes that fits London perfectly; they hide in all the dark nooks we tend to ignore, turning our gardens and streets into nocturnal playgrounds and staring out from their hiding places with their beady little paranoid eyes.
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