From my kitchen sink I view a daily wildlife soap opera in my urban garden below. Red foxes are regular visitors, sunbathing on the gravel and even on the warm slate flagstones of my roof terrace, digging up the pebbles around my Himalayan birch for tidbits dropped by the birds. Once a vixen made her den behind my garden shed; when the cubs emerged the garden became a playground for them, as did the street, where they chased each other over, under and between the parked cars. Their numbers had increased so much at one time that there was even talk of setting up a Finsbury Park hunt and, much like the country, the street was divided into two camps, both equally passionate: pro and anti-hunt. It seems a privilege to me that such a large wild animal chooses to live in close proximity to us city dwellers.
The fox hoping for a nice supper of plump woodpigeon was unlucky this time, but he did chase away the aggressive black and white cat that relentlessly stalks next-door's ginger tom .