Hoodie winking the local nightlife

Foxhunting has been banned, of course, but I still do it at least once a week round my way in Richmond.

Usually after Newsnight, when the sight of a slavering Paxo shaking a hapless politician in his mouth is guaranteed to get the blood up.

I put on a hoodie: this ensures that remaining pedestrians scuttle past me in the dark, casting fearful glances behind them; and if I'm halfway through a glass of wine, I take it along.

My trusty companion Jimmie, the three-legged supermog, is good to go without any tackle.
Midnight is a grand and solitary time to be out on a weekday. Your senses sharpen.

There's a pendulous silver birch in the next road, alongside a street lamp. At this time of year, if there's a bit of a breeze, the shimmering copper leaves dance in and out of the light: you can actually hear the tree having a good time.

Smells are intensified and travel further. Best of all, there may be a couple of robins, confused by light pollution into thinking it's dawn, sweetly singing their heads off, competing to be top bird.

We can't walk as far as we did when Jimmie had a full set of legs but, thanks to his sensitive nose, we still have the odd adventure. Not long ago we found a couple of frogs. One had been squished in the road but the other was still alive, so we put it in the overgrown garden of the nearby doctor's surgery.

We track down a vulpine in no time. Like cats, they're curious, and always looking for entertainment. It's a large dog fox that we've found but it's painfully thin — Richmond has a weekly waste-food collection and working out how to open the food pails has really foxed the local wildlife.

M Reynard comes up close to check us out. Territorial Jimmie stands his ground — that's what lost him his leg in the first place — and I'm not taking any chances. Foxes are killing machines and can no more go against their rapacious natures than a banker can acquire a moral compass. If I weren't there, a big fight would kick off.

As it is, there's a tacit truce, and we agree to part amicably. Soon after, another, much smaller animal spots us and skips over to investigate. Portly Jim is twice the size of this starved creature — he'd only have to topple on it to claim victory — and, recognising this, the second fox, too, beats a retreat.

Two animals is enough for one night. More importantly, my glass is empty: time for bed. We head home, pausing only for Jimmie to spray the myriad parked 4WDs. I'm tired but he's high on adrenaline. I suspect my house spiders are in for one hell of a night.