There's this fluffy tree-rat sitting basking in the sunshine, eating nuts and warily giving me the eye as I train my camera on him from an upstairs bedroom. He seems happy. But I have an air-rifle I could have trained upon him instead. These grey squirrels are vermin after all. But I've only ever killed one animal, (using and air gun as it happens) but the experience wasn't enjoyable and I don't intend to repeat it. I shot a bird, not expecting to hit it at all because it was so far away, but the pellet arched from the gun and unerringly and horribly took its life. I was eighteen and the experience mortified me. But at least I know I'm not a killer. But I'm also not a happy bunny at the moment either.
How can you be wrapped up under a duvet, an extra blanket plus a thick dressing gown and still be bloody cold? It's a question I keep asking myself this morning. I got so cold I gave up and trudged downstairs to the even colder kitchen, scraped some dried-on left-over peas from inside a pan, filled it with freezing bloody water and threw it on to boil. Stuck the kettle on and chucked in some instant noodles in the pan. A minute later I was warming up with hot noodles and coffee. Which I've just finished and its given me sufficient energy to moan on here, to you, oh undeserving and unknown passing reader from probably some strange and distant land. Had you googled fluffy squirrel perhaps, and found yourself here? I do apologise. Actually I don't. I'm alone, my nose is alternately blocked and running and is bloody sore, my eyes stream and hurt and I can't keep warm. I'm not ill, you understand. No, I've got bloody man-flu. So I'm not expecting sympathy. Or even a call. But I'm a man, I can take it. But if that bloody squirrel ever decides to look at me the wrong way, I'm getting out the gun.