A Prickly Problem.

He ain't heavy, he's my hedgehog (actually, he's very heavy!)


It took hours!


I love animals. I adore animals, of all kinds, except possibly cats (murdering, self-obsessed, feminine-like bastards) but I have kept a few of them in my time - oh, and I'm not keen on ganets - they mess their nests (sorry, creaping off into Python there).
Anyway, Pither Towers is a haven for wildlife of all kinds. I have a pond populated by miriad aquatic life, I spend a fortune feeding the birds all year round, there are more bird boxes in the garden than hovels on a Goven council estate, I have mice nesting in a wood pile at the bottom of the garden, I have moles, I have ducks which come to enjoy the pond, I have dogs, I rescue and foster other dogs for a charity, I have a lobster (long story), I have marine fish, I have tropical fish, I have foxes (lay off them, they're all right), I have bats nesting in boxes provided for them by yours truly, - I even have boxes for bees and hammocks for buttlerflies!
You get the picture. Well, when I first moved into the Boulevard of a Thousand Broken Dreams, one of my first actions was to build a hedgehog box. It took hours. Finely crafted, waterproofed, with a ventilation shaft, a snug little tunnel leading inside and the softest hay you could find for the hibernating little ones. That was five years ago. Since then, have any hedgehogs taken up the offer of free accommodation? Have they 'eck as like! My mutant pals found my efforts and lack of results so amusing that they even bought me a concrete hedgehog to put outside the box to cheer me up.
Well, this year has been particularly stressful for hedgehogs. Apparently, because it has been so warm (ice caps melting, CFCs, we're all doomed I tell you) the little critters have been having three litters and not the usual two. The result is that the young from the final litter are being born so late that they do not have enough food, the light is all wrong, and they are confused and so end up staggering about in a seemingly drunken state. With this crisis, I assumed that they must at last take refuge at Pither Towers. I checked today. Nothing! Not a sausage! Bugger all!
It would appear that they prefer to starve and freeze to death rather than keep me company. This is the story of my life.
I feel rejected. I am off hedgehogs at the moment - ungrateful gits!
From now on, independent, free-roaming, "wherever I hang my hat that's my home" hedgehogs can make their way down to Grantham. Leave me the home-lovers, please.