One of the advantages of living in a modern society, as opposed to say, Athens in 500 BC, is our flexible approach to refuse collection.

Brighton City Council, for instance, have taken to the not unreasonable policy that, should your wheelie-bin be full, any excess refuse bags placed beside the wheelie-bin will be ignored by the refuse collector and left to rot. (And yes, I do sort through my garbage like a starving racoon to separate out the glass, plastic and paper).

That is why, at 3.15 AM this morning, I was woken by the sound of not one, not two, not three, not four, but FIVE urban foxes having a violent and protracted Mexican stand-off over the (double-bagged) chicken carcass I put out yesterday. A truly unique sight, I hope you’d agree.

Now, I love foxes. There are loads of them round here (clearly). Amazing animals. I spent a very pleasant hour watching the five little pranksters foxy-boxing, howling at the tops of their little lungs and generally trying to tear each other to bits.

But when you knock on the window and all five brazenly stare up and don’t move, their minds clearly fixed on the prize, you have to wonder how far we – and specifically the abject Brighton City Council – have progressed since the Cretans invented the landfill site in 3000 BC.

And that’s why I’m knackered and feel like I want to thrash a council representative this morning.

(See also Seagulls. This year’s incessantly squawking and rutting contingent seem to have finally buggered off from the roof. Looks like we’re going to have to give the seven-year old the ‘where do babies come from’ chat before they come back as I suspect my ‘oh, she’s just giving him a piggy back’ excuse is wearing thin.)