The Woodwose is a hairy fellow; a carrier of the cudgel, a creature of leaf and lane - or so you might think!
For, following in the paw prints of urban foxes - or, even in the wake of the wing-beat of the peregrines on the cathedral spire -, I have evidence that the Woodwose has also migrated to the city.
For over the last couple of days, from the attic above my humble abode, there has been such a banging and a shuffling; a tapping and a clouting - a most perplexing hubbub indeed!
Imagine my astonishment when, having opened the door to my daughter's cupboard, I looked up to see a Woodwose peering down at me from above. Furthermore, upon ascending the steps, the results of his labours were clear to see...
Now, the thing about a Woodwose is that if you thank him for his labours he will leave (I know this to be so, from my friend, the Yarnsmith of Norwich). However, you are at liberty to leave gifts of food, and so it was that I left a box of Gay Fancies, which, as you can see, he ripped into with gusto!
Huzzah! To the urban Woodwose. Huzzah! I say...
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