The Giant Plastic Robin Strikes

Nemesis. Atilla II is dead. Utensil, who we don't feel is suited to extended widowhood, will be rehomed up the road tonight. Three Light Sussexes are going to get the fright of their lives when she wakes amongst them in a fury tomorrow.

In Rupert and Jo's courtyard this morning we saw a large and handsome fox, red-gold against the snow and looking straight through the kitchen window at us, bold as brass. Rupe grabbed his gun without much hope, and we hurried outside.

The fox had gone into the walled garden, and not to the back where Jo tends the National Herd of Indian Running Ducks (Jo's ducks breed like rabbits - except of course they have ducklings, not bunnies - making her largest breeder in England, by default). I hurried back through the field to Garden Cottage and ran about our gardens making anti-fox noises ('Oy, fox, go away!' and similar - all very embarrassing) whilst the chooks regarded me balefully from under their usual hedge.

Then I went indoors. An hour later, we noticed that Utensil was alone. A couple feathers, white against the white snow, were the only sign of anything amiss. It had been soundless and, apparently bloodless. Atilla was fox-food. And Ute could not have looked less bothered. So much for the sisterhood

So that's it. We are no longer chicken owners. The giant plastic robin of fate as struck. We have skiied right off the cake and are in free-fall.

U