This morning I woke up to a deflated goal.
Having bought an inflatable goal on Saturday and spending most of the 3 hours prior to the cup final saving goals from Eben in the garden, I thought it was pretty much the best 8 quid I'd spent for a while.
Yesterday afternoon Nicky rang me and said 'What's happened to the goal the base is flat'. It looked like it had been mauled. It had 3 puncture marks from what I imagined was a fox, a deduction I made from the fact that it had taken a crap on our patio, which Eben had presented it to Nicky with the words 'look Mummy dog poo'. Fox crap is possibly the worst smell in the world, I know this from years of washing the family dog who seemed to seek the stuff out for entertainment.
Anyway, a quick and dirty puncture repair last night had the goal back up and running, before I went to bed and I chucked it back out in to the garden before retiring upstairs.
As Eben pulled his curtains his morning, I was greeted by a rather sad and dejected looking puddle of plastic and string. I mentioned it to Nicky as I was leaving for work and rather surprisingly, it turned out to be my fault for putting it back in the garden. I however, know the truth, that it is actually a bloody fox. I'm going to swing for the bastard.
I know exactly which fox it is, it swans around out street pillaging from every rubbish bin left carelessly half open. It craps everywhere, mainly because it survives on a diet of fried chicken pickings, which would give most people the runs when it's 'fresh' from the oven.
I hate the scraggy flee bitten git, I can't bring myself to like it. It's vermin, vermin that comes and pops my goal every night and craps in my son's hand (well kind of).
I'm going to stay up and catch the bugger in the act tonight.