An encounter with a fox is always memorable. How could I forget the time we saw one run on to the pitch during a Celtic vs Rangers match at Parkhead? The vixen galloped past the Celtic dugout, red flanks the same striking colour as the hair of the legendary Celts manager, Tommy Burns. At the other end of the country in leafy Surrey, I recall walking down my brother-in-law’s private road with a large dog fox ambling some 10 yards ahead of us. I’ve also seen foxes pogo-ing from wheelie bin to wheelie bin in London’s Fitzrovia.