Kenneth Grahame Was Not a Gardener!!

The Wind in the Willows - such a romantic, evocative title. Picture a river bank peopled with small furry animals, and I use the word 'peopled' advisedly. Give these little animals human characteristics, project our best and our worst traits onto them, and watch them act out our daily struggles. Unlike in real life, the good and the righteous will prevail against the bad, the mean and the plain downright wicked. Thus Toad the arrogant, puffed up rich boy is humbled and turned back into a good 'un. Ratty with his sharp intelligence is the natural leader who guides the others along the straight and narrow path. A bit of a know-it-all for my liking, but not a bad chap. Stoats and weasels are just plain trouble: blame it if you will on their impoverished upbringings, drug addict parents, poor living conditions, sink estates and failing schools, and an absence of the saintlike interventions of a Camilla Batmanghelidjh. They will be vanquished, just like Islamic State when David Cameron gets his hands on them. Right. But if you must anthropomorphise these critters please get it right. Take Mole. A right evil little shit he is, masquerading inside his dense furry black coat as some Uriah Heap but without the sneaky bits. I have news for you. He is a sneak. And he's spiteful, vindictive, and utterly nasty. Grahame would have known that if he'd ever met one, and not drawn this vicious little mammal as a gentle, shy, well-meaning, bumbling, myopic little creep. He hides under the ground for God's sake, digging spy tunnels, stealing worms. If he emerges into daylight and blinks his squinty little eyes it's to gloat, to sneer and snicker.

Yup, I've had a nocturnal visit from Mr Mole. I can see the path he took just beneath the surface of my new lawn, tunnelling his way in a zigzag all down one side. He didn't have to work very hard because the turfs are just lying on the surface of the ground, as yet unrooted, and he was able to slide beneath them leaving the shape of his body behind. I know this vengeful little horror and his myriad cousins and siblings will be constant visitors to my garden, but so will Sid the Molecatcher (mole killer actually). Sid is coming this afternoon, but on the phone he told me he wished he still had access to strychnine, now a banned substance, which disposes of resident moles in a flash. Ah, but I have connections in the farming world, and don't tell me there aren't secret supplies of the poison still festering in old barns and dusty corners of sheds. I rang my friend Did. Unfazed, he said he'd make a few enquiries and call me back. I knew he'd say that. No stuff and nonsense about him or Sid. Proper country folk doing what needs to be done with unsentimental efficiency. And in the meantime if I see any movement near the surface of the grass and have my fork to hand .....