Dividing my time between town and country leaves me pretty confused at times. The other day a fox streaked across a paddock at the Surrey farm where I keep my horses. The gamekeeper, who was having his tea break, stubbed out his cigarette enigmatically and went off to do whatever it is that gamekeepers do.
I do not pretend to understand his dark arts — and I sometimes wish he didn’t walk around with quite so many dead crows hanging from his jacket — but I do know that as a result of his peculiar skills we get to enjoy fresh eggs from free-roaming chickens who lay neatly on the top of the straw banks in our horses’ stalls.
We also have a very cute flock of ducks, who splash about in the water jump; a family of guinea fowl, who go to bed at night in the trees; and best of all Goosey the goose, who answers to his name and likes being cuddled.
As far as I can make out, this wondrous menagerie is kept alive by the gamekeeper killing things with extremely sharp teeth and no moral compass. After dealing with the fox he also put paid to a pesky little mink, which if left to its own devices would have climbed the tree in the night and murdered the guinea fowl.
That evening I drove back into London pondering the words of Winston Churchill: It’s not a perfect system, but it’s the least bad system we have.
I parked, got out of my car and came face to face with a vixen sitting with her two cubs on the pavement outside my house. My first thought was to call the gamekeeper. But unfortunately he has no jurisdiction here. Which is probably why the streets of Balham are teeming with more foxes after dark than drunk women in their 20s, which is saying something. They lounge in packs on the common, or else swagger along the pavements, helping themselves to food that has fallen out of the bins. The foxes, I mean.
You can walk right up to them and they smirk toothily as if to say, ‘I’ll be helping myself to your pet rabbits later. And maybe your cat…’ The sight of one of these creatures bringing her children to my front door is an alarming development. I don’t think it can be good news for the house bunnies, TT and Tinkerbell, who are fond of sunbathing in the garden.
I really want to call the gamekeeper. But instead I have to ring Lambeth Council. To prepare myself for the political correctness that is about to erupt, I go on to their website first. Under ‘pest control’ I find a long list of things that the loony left does seems to be willing to kill. ‘We deal with pests and vermin including: rats and mice, cockroaches, bed bugs, fleas, and tropical ants.’ This is heartening.
‘We offer services to deal with threats to public health including clearance of rubbish, dead animals, noxious matter, body fluids, rotting food and hypodermic needles. We also clear pigeon mess and undertake pigeon proofing.’
They have a list of ‘target treatment times’ which are fascinating. Tropical ants: eight weeks; Cockroaches: six weeks; Rats: four weeks; Mice: four weeks; Black ants: four weeks; Domestic beetles: four weeks; Wasps: one week.’
There is no mention of vixen but I yearn to tell them that if they enlisted the services of the Surrey Union hunt — and overturned the ban, of course — we could probably rustle up a ‘target treatment time’ of three hours for the foxes on Tooting Common.
So I pick up the phone. ‘Thank you for calling Lambeth public health and pest control services. Please hold while you are transferred to an officer.’ I tell the lady who answers that I want to speak to someone about foxes. There is a long pause.
‘I’ll need to put you through to the warden.’ I ask if the warden will help me kill foxes. Another long pause. ‘I don’t think they’ve got the resources, but she would be able to give you advice on how to control them.’
I worry that she is talking about some sort of cognitive behavioural therapy involving social services. Or that a police community support officer is going to come round with a leaflet on how to protect myself from foxes without violating their civil rights.
She takes my number and says the warden will contact me. As I await her call I would like to make a prediction. Lambeth Council will not do anything about the vixen. And all foxes will eventually flee the countryside for the town, where they will be offered a life of indolent luxury and unlimited benefits by left-wing local authorities. Lock up your pets.
Melissa Kite is deputy political editor of the Sunday Telegraph.
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