The Hunt

Day 12. Friday.

I only just got to the pub on time. Over breakfast Sonya engaged me in a discussion on the morning that lay ahead. I could have done without it. She likes winding me up.

'Everyone thinks that hunt protesters feel sorry for the fox. Why don’t you?'

'Do you feel sorry for the fox?'

'Kinda. It’s alive, has feelings. It’s a bit like a weed really.'

I knew I was in for a child’s view of the persecuted in this world.

'In what way is a fox like a weed?' I sighed.

'A weed is any plant you don’t want to grow in your garden. We grow horseradish. We make horseradish sauce and sell it. It’s inedible unless you want your brains through your ears, but some people buy it. Horseradish isn’t a weed - to us. It is a weed to everyone else in the village because it tries to take over the world.'

'Where do foxes appear?'