Outdoors, I’ve been loving and hating my new neighbours, a family of vulpes vulpes who are noisy – barking, yipping and howling all through the night – and are freaking out not only the local cats but also the local drivers, who have to keep swerving to miss them when they parade through the streets. Most of all, though, they seem to enjoy digging holes in all the rubbish bags in my shared front garden, which meant that I spent over an hour today cleaning up after the buggers and picking up my neighbours’ rubbish while trying not to retch and wishing the lady on the ground floor (who, incidentally, is both a fashion model and a news camerawoman who apparently won an award for covering the invasion of Iraq) would use rubbish bags instead of carrier bags. How hard IS it to buy a bin bag? Then again, after broadcasting from a warzone I suppose such domestic trifles mean nothing. She’s probably a “bigger picture” kind of gal.
I still love the foxes, though. Mangy, dirty, noisy, messy beasts that they are, they still make me smile because they’re just big ginger dogs with funny tails.
Indoors, meanwhile, I’ve been snuggled up in front of the TV, slowly working my way through the X-Files season one DVD box set I bought six months ago, reliving all things Spooky and Scully. I’ve been struck by two things: that Mark Snow’s score was actually bloody good in the show’s virgin season (my hatred of his work since has become somewhat irrational and twisted), and by how on Earth anybody EVER thought the name Fox Mulder was even remotely feasible.
I mean, come on. Imagine if Kojak’s first name had been “Bear” instead of “Theo”? Or Starsky & Hutch had hit the streets with the names “Dormouse” and “Penguin” rather than “Dave” and “Ken”? Or Inspector Morse had been lumbered with “Platypus” instead of the far-more normal-sounding, uh, “Endeavour”…?
Oh, you get the point.