WESLEY was only with us for five weeks. He arrived at Dun Subbin' with his little suitcase and a note saying that although he was definitely loved, he wasn't exactly wanted. He was a casualty of the I-want-I-want syndrome that condemns so many rabbits to lives of misery.

Highly-strung and impossible to pick up, Wesley was coming along fine at the Phillpott boot - sorry, paw - camp for the care of conies.

The other night I arrived home to find Wesley gone. Clumps of fur on the lawn spelled out words of death on the fox's calling card.

Wesley was the third rabbit of mine to end up on the Southbank Hospital fox family's dinner table and I'm beginning to feel persecuted.

First Dot, then Edward... and now Wesley. Sole survivor Peter's security must now be stepped up dramatically.

l Summer's coming on and I daresay that the occasion of balmy evening will find me comfortably installed in a pub garden. I'm a Flowers bitter man myself, partly because it tastes good, and partly because it's a Warwickshire ale and reminds me of my homeland.

Mind you, years ago, I always preferred mild. Just what has happened to this drink? Once, this dark, nutty-tasting liquid quenched the thirst of many a working bloke. Now, you never see it. I imagine that the ubiquitous lager has driven it out, just as the grey squirrel has usurped the red.