Captain Midnight here reporting from the mean streets of Acton.

As far as I can see, not much has changed in the past 150 years in this part of the world, except that the Victorian terraces are now seething with foxes. Cheeky buggers come out at night, bold as brass, rummaging through the dustbins for scraps.

Himself says they are nervous creatures and not to worry. It’s alright for him, six foot tall. They’re a lot scarier down here on the pavement. I’m a bit of a baddass myself, but I wouldn’t fancy meeting a bunch of urban foxes on my own, I can tell you. It’s dog eat dog with old vulpes vulpes and guess which one of us would be dinner.

As if the foxes weren’t bad enough, there are cats here the size of small horses, lurking behind hedges, waiting to pounce. I think they are in cahoots with Mrs. Fluffy the house cat, with whom relations are currently strained. It’s taken two years for us to get on speaking terms, and she still takes the occasional swipe at me in passing.

Himself has swanned off somewhere for ‘work’ again, leaving me behind to the mercy of assorted metropolitan marauders. On the bright side, when he’s away, I do get to spend lots of time curled up on the sofa with Herself, in front of the fire.

Maybe things aren’t so bad after all

Captain Midnight here in the post-Christmas doldrums.

The pack was supposed to be cavorting on the beach in Lyme Regis this New Year but we stayed in London instead because Herself has hurt her back and, not to be outdone, Himself has “a terrible cold and a cricked neck.” They’ve been sprawled on the couch for days, moaning and groaning, though I notice that they still manage to get up to pour drinks and stuff themselves on leftovers.

Of course, I hunkered down and did much wuffling and cuddling to soothe their suffering. It’s what we do when the pack is in trouble and I’m glad to report that it seems to be having some effect. Herself can now sit down and get up from the sofa without actual tears of pain, while Himself found sufficient energy this afternoon to finger the keyboard listlessly for 20 minutes or so, albeit without much inspiration.

New Year’s Eve came and went without much incident. There were fireworks in the street and I did what any sensible super-dog would do: stayed indoors and hid under the bed until they stopped whizzing and popping.

In the past week, I’ve sat through half a dozen movies, an entire boxed set of Game of Thrones and 10 episodes of an excellent programme about a family of corgis and their owner, called The Crown.

In between times, I’ve managed to drag Himself round the block a couple of times a day but that’s been about the only exercise I’ve had apart from chasing phantom foxes in the garden and some rather half-hearted ball chucking in the hallway.

I would worry about putting on weight except for the fact that remarkably little of the turkey, sausages and bacon lying around has come my way.

No surprise there.