Looking out of the train window the other evening, Central Belt Shuffler was surprised to see a fox running across a field. Not so much because the country fox is so very rare, but because of the ubiquity of their city cousins. A family of five live directly opposite my flat; one of the ‘types of folk’ illustrated in Alasdair Gray’s Hillhead subway station mural are the ‘Urban Foxes’.
The urban fox feeds on discarded takeaways, ripped-open bin bags, and – it is to be assumed – the odd slow-stepped magpie, or duck plucked fresh from the Kelvin. Central Belt Shuffler once saw one trotting away from the chippie on Great Western Road, wrapped fish supper carefully held in its jaws. Does it have a regular order? And does the rural fox dream of cappuccino and free wifi?