Rabbits 1, rabbit proof tunnel, nil

Waffle had been showing rather less interest of late in the large and impenetrable mahonia bush where we were both convinced a rabbit or rabbits were hanging out in readiness for the first flush of lettuce.

As there has been nothing to eat except the first rich yellow leaves of rhubarb, I did wonder if they had pushed off in search of sweeter things. Or possibly a fox or stoat had been keeping them down.

But sure enough, one of the rabbit(s)’ friends or relations has now been having a go at the cut and come again, quick growing salad leaf mix (“quick growing” if you live in the Home Counties).

A row had come up under a cobbled together cloche constructed out of bits of glass with clever clips of the sort which never work the way they do on Youtube. But it brought the seedlings on and by way of better rabbit protection I replaced it with a length of cut down chicken wire folded over to make a tunnel and pegged it in with bent hightensile wire hooks.

And sure enough for a week all was well and everything flourished in the first burst of proper sun. Until strolling out to admire progress one morning half the row had been nibbled to the ground.

Something had scrabbled a depression in the earth and lifted one end of the tunnel (so much for my pegging). Summoned from the pick-up where she was sunning herself on the passenger seat Waffle tore about enthusiastically under every bush in the garden to produce no rabbit but one very weather beaten shoe which she must have parked in a bush two years ago, because I had given up finding it and had just chucked out the surviving half of the pair. So still one shoe down.

I didn’t have a gun with me even if a rabbit had bolted. Bar digging in a three foot high fence around 40 yards of veg beds we are stuffed. We are also stuffed by the gun laws. Two days later a fairly small rabbit appeared across the lawn from my office. A perfect shot from the open bedroom window.

It took ages to find the gun cabinet keys, retrieve the Czech .22, fumble with bullets, dash upstairs and crawl across the bedroom floor to keep out of sight. The shot had to be taken from a half kneeling crouching position through the two inch gap between open sash and sill without poking the barrel through the window. And where was the rabbit? Gone.

Now had I sensibly, if illegally, kept the rifle under my bed, instead of in what the bobbies like to call a “lock fast” cabinet, valuable minutes would have been saved.

What we really need is a vixen and a few cubs. There’s never a fox about when you need one.