Death in the stubble
All too familiar a scene, I regret to report, at the margins of East Anglia's roads. The usual casualties are the tiny introduced muntjacs, which are everywhere. I once saw one standing on the pavement in the high street outside Aldi. I'm not well-up on our native mammals, so perhaps one of you experts can say whether this is a red or a roe deer. One jumps to the conclusion that the animal had been struck by a car or, more likely hereabouts, one of the ceaselessly passing lorries that serve the annual beet "campaign" at the Wissington sugar factory. Being of a suspicious turn of mind, however, I wonder whether some sort of country sports might be involved, the carcase being dumped at the roadside afterwards. I deplore any kind of cruelty to animals, but a part of me applauds the survival of robust old country ways among people for whom transgenderism, inclusivity and multi-media performing arts mean little. No wonder London hates them.
Death in the stubble
All too familiar a scene, I regret to report, at the margins of East Anglia's roads. The usual casualties are the tiny introduced muntjacs, which are everywhere. I once saw one standing on the pavement in the high street outside Aldi. I'm not well-up on our native mammals, so perhaps one of you experts can say whether this is a red or a roe deer. One jumps to the conclusion that the animal had been struck by a car or, more likely hereabouts, one of the ceaselessly passing lorries that serve the annual beet "campaign" at the Wissington sugar factory. Being of a suspicious turn of mind, however, I wonder whether some sort of country sports might be involved, the carcase being dumped at the roadside afterwards. I deplore any kind of cruelty to animals, but a part of me applauds the survival of robust old country ways among people for whom transgenderism, inclusivity and multi-media performing arts mean little. No wonder London hates them.