January 23

The screaming is half way between a dog and a child. It chills me. I jump once. The scream cuts the pitch-black early morning again. I hold my chest, heart pumping with adrenaline, mind spilling out horror-movie fears.

I’m on my own.

I jump again as something small and furry scuttles past and across the world, chased by two other similar blurs of fur. I will be attacked by a rapid pact!

No, they are foxes. I sigh with relief. Another scream. It comes from the first fox. The other two are pursuing it, barking excitedly; the yelps of canine gang warfare.

Footsteps.

There is a man behind me. He is wearing earphones. He doesn’t see the foxes. He storms past me, and in that confident indifference, I feel a ravine in my masculinity. I was scared like a child.

Perhaps that’s a good thing. The confident, indifferent man didn’t notice a thing.