Under hedge, not Undergrad.

Dennis couldn’t get into Cambridge; he’s our hedgehog. But we’re very proud of him all the same. I think those intellectual red brick conservatives have something against honest toilers. Because he works nights though we’re not sure what he’s building. Some say a shed but I favour a moderate expanse of decking. But my God he puts his back into it. I could hear him over my teeth cleaning last night grunting away on his latest project. Which may be a nursery. I know. I mean he’s probably finished the bathroom by now, maybe even a downstairs loo, which we don’t have by the way. So we troop downstairs with a head torch to see. Behind the big blue pot with the bay tree in it Dennis is grunting away like a good ‘un, AND beside him is a sleek smaller companion. Beside his coarse portly spines she, one presumes, is petite and slightly more glossy. They are nosing behind the big blue pot with the bay tree in it. Mothermouse rushes inside to get some Felix and spoons some out for when they finish nosing. And has to pull four cats out by the tail to leave them and the Felix alone. So Dennis, our down to earth garden toiler, is arranging his kingdom for him and his mate, his feet on the ground, absorbed in the practicalities of life. So what if he didn’t get into Cambridge. Lets face it, he wouldn’t have fitted in, not with those Conservatives. Each to his own.