A couple of nights ago, I popped out the back of my house to water my tomatos (yes I live an exciting life), and there jammed part way under the decking steps was a huge hedgehog. I thought it must be very ill, as it wasn't moving, so I scooped it up into a box, and popped it in my garage. I didn't want it to become rat/fox fodder, and I fully expected it to be dead in the morning.
Next day, I pop in the garage. The hedgehog had cleared off to hide under my broken pinball machine. It looked a bit less dozy and spent some time sussing me, my wife, daughter and her friend out as we peered at it, and named it Harry.
Quick trip down to the wonderful South East Essex Wildlife Hospital, saw Harry turn into Harriet. They said they'd check her out properly, but thought she looked fine. They wondered if we'd like to take on two new hedgehogs for our garden in the near future, as they had 200. We're looking forward to the phone call and saying yes. Have I become completely middle-aged now?
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