The foxes have once again been at our rubbish.  This morning while laying partly comatose on the couch I heard what I dread.

“Bloody Foxes”

I lay there hoping Mark would go and clean up the mess, I lay in denial. Watching Tweenies with Will, I willed the mess to disappear.  I hate bagging the rubbish again almost as much as I have trawling though it to look for keys, passports, purses( we did this all in the space of ONE week ) I know it’s mine , I have seen it all before.  I don’t want or need to look at it again, there is no pleasure to it.  Especially when the fox shows contempt for my rubbish by having not one but TWO shits on the lawn, oh the fun I not only get to re-bag my rubbish I also get to pick up fox crap.

The children who are all in practice to be lazy grown ups took one look said

“oh my god that is disgusting”

went in side and slammed the door.

The  thing about poo is that if it is your child’s, you will clean it off them, stick your finger in it( by accident I’m not that weird), examine it ,smell it and talk about it for hours with other mums. BUT. If it comes for any other bum than one you gave birth to it is instantly repulsive.

Now the food and poo are but a distant memory that I will, forget about till tomorrow morning when I look out the window and see once again my rubbish shrewn every where and I will once again hear,

“Bloody foxes”


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