It was a cold winter’s night. The hedgerow’s frost-tipped leaves were set to gleaming by the Moon’s icy beams; the Sun had long retired to bed behind the barren fields. Soon the hedges were full of whispering, for it was that hour of night when all the animals, safe from human eyes and ears, could leave their hiding places in safety to rejoice and play. Pheasants hopped down from their roosts, calling rather noisily to each other -‘Percy my dear boy! How the ruddy hell are you old bean?’ Bryony and Phyllis the old hedgehogs pottered out for a gossip with their friend Jacinta, the muntjack deer. Young field mice dashed from their burrows, tittering with joy whilst their mothers, fearful of the lecherous owl Mr Barnaby Glydown, called after them, urging them to stay in sight.
Sir Phileas Bobbington, hearing the commotion, popped his head out of his warren to see what the devil all that racket was for! The old rabbit was a fine fellow, well respected in the neighbourhood and throughout the surrounding fields. He wore a fine purple waistcoat with gold buttons, and a monocle over his left eye. Seeing that night had fallen, he mellowed – it was high time he got up and about! Taking with him his brown clay pipe, he bounded out from his burrow, brushing the mud from his little waistcoat. Seeing Ambrose Finnegan the badger in the hedge opposite, he called out to his friend and began hopping over to him.
‘Ambrose! Beautiful ni- SLAM!!!!
An instant of blinding light, a sickening thump and Sir Phileas Bobbington was no more than a smear of blood and fur and bones - and purple silk - ground into the icy tarmac. The taillights, red fireflies, trailed off into the night; fleeting vigil candles at his gruesome wake.
The next day flies feasted whilst his monocle, shattered now, glinted in the winter sun.
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