Breakfast the Twenty-Ninth

Poor Man's Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and Banana.

Perhaps it's Roald Dahl's fault, but I do love foxes. Even urban ones (I saw one on my way home this evening).  Especially urban ones actually, because I'm contrary; and because they're given a hard time for ripping open bin bags and covering the streets in household detritus. But that's only because the New Town mafia in Edinburgh are so violently opposed to wheelie bins that we have to put our bin bags out for the foxes to break into. (Apparently wheelie bins are a deviation from Robert Adam's vision of the New Town in ways that Range Rovers and parking meters simply aren't.)

This demonisation of wheelie bins is the reason that most Edinburgh stairwells smell like mould and have tacky pools of heaven-knows-what dribbled all down the stairs: because people have forgotten bin day and left their leaky bin bags languishing on the landing for days on end.