Whilst bristly little polyp Bill Oddie crouches for long hours in the bushes for a single glimpse of foxy on a green-tinged night image camera, our foxes run the streets until well after dawn; a young dog fox regularly trots across the road under my study window at 6.30 or so on his way to lay-up for the day. And they climb - something I'm sure I never saw once in Suffolk - leaping from shed roof to shed roof. As the train to the office runs through an embankment that's home to a warren of earths, entire foxy families lay out taking the sun, the cubs playing unconcerned within feet of the tracks.
With so many foxes in London, it's hardly surprising that the fish-are-people-too crowd of deranged and psychotic loons well known to country folk should pop up, threatening and abusing the mother of the twins 'mauled' by foxy. They'll be daubing her car in red paint next, or pouring petrol through her letter box. That's what they do to people who disagree with them.
So at the risk of driving the lamebrains to apoplexy, here's my solution. Back in the '70s the Ministry of Agriculture paid for each Coypu tail we turned in; I think it was two bob, or even half a crown each. Enough anyway to be a decent incentive to lads with access to a .410 and some ditches. Let them now offer the same incentive to London; a crisp fiver for each fox brush.
Londoners don't need hounds or rifles. Even crafty snares are unnecessary. Our foxes will gladly enter a cage trap trap baited with just a chicken wing from the Colonel's best southern spicy range, or some fragments of chilli-soaked kebab meat. Unemployed Afro teens can put their 9mms and Mac10s to good use. Somalis can re-learn their spearcraft. Lithuanian dypsomaniacs can throw beer cans with force and surprising accuracy. Jihadists can explode themselves amongst the fox earths.
Killing foxes is something I know that modern London will be very good at. And the rights loons may even find modern Londoners more of a challenge than rural housewives.