February

SNOWY DAYS AND FROSTY NIGHTS keep country dwellers indoors. Don’t argue with nature, say the shepherds, or nature will argue with you.

It’s rough out there in the woodlands. Fleur, the killer cat, has brought something large and furry into my workroom in the night and left it on the carpet, dead as mustard. I pick it up by its fat grey tail, hoping it isn’t a rat. It has a big brown face without a snout, tiny ears and small eyes in a blunt head. From the round, soft furry body protrude ratty little hairless feet with pink undersides. I carry the corpse through to the kitchen where, naturally enough, I keep my identification manuals.