MacGregor Alf

We've got a rabbit in the garden. No, not a cuddly, floppy-eared house rabbit, but a grey, wild pea-eating one. In a garden where I have recovered an extra 10 square yards of land (inextricably fenced off in years past) for a vegetable patch, and recently demolished a rickety old 6'x4' shed (almost entirely covered by an enormous honeysuckle bush) for a second similar-sized plot, Alf's nascent veggie patch is a precious and treasured creation. The potatoes are up and 4 pea plants have sprouted.

Then Mrs Alf and Daughter informed me they'd seen a rabbit in the garden. I thought they were joking until I saw it from Son's bedroom window at bath-time, hopping nonchalantly from behind the playhouse to the patch.

Mrs Alf and Daughter were then creased up in hysterics as I shot downstairs to sort the thieving rodent out. To no avail, of course; it had sensibly disappeared by the time I got out.

"I wonder if there's someone I know with a .22?" I mused.

"What's a two-two?" asks Mrs Alf.

"It's a calibre. For a gun."

"You can't shoot our little rabbit. We like it!" they both cry.

"But it's eaten my peas! It has crossed the line."

Suffice to say I have neither the intention of acquiring a .22 nor shooting the pea-thieving offender. A couple of judiciously applied spare edging stones have blocked its likely entry points. The Alf estate is once again secure.