Holey Moley

I was on my knees scrabbling and barking at the front lawn this morning, when the post-lady arrived. The worst thing was that she affected not to notice or ask me what I was doing, just gave me a pitying look. A shame, because I had a perfectly reasonable explanation. Without a neatly mown lawn, you're pretty much nobody round here. Tidy grass is mandatory and you're expected to keep it looking a credit to the village.

So I was trying to get Toby, our Jack Russell, to take an interest in the mole-hills that are disfiguring our sward. He's normally a docile character. Cats get him worked up into a snarling bundle of uncontrollable fury, so do pheasants, but moles, unfortunately are something he doesn't give a toss about. If only he'd just rouse himself to catch them and shake them to death, it would seem more natural, somehow, than the ultimate weapon - a trap.

We've tried the humane method. A gnarled old country bump.. err.. chap from the down the lane told us to put prickly twigs in their runs. Tried this. No good. We've also had a tip from another old local - bury bottles up to their necks in the ground, and the wind blowing over them will make a humming noise that they can't stand. Bit like wind-chimes, which we all know are hellish, so it might just work. Well, I can't see us getting away with this, though, without breaching some EU Directive on Disposable Waste Recycling although it does seem an appealing way of getting rid of Mme.'s empties without endless trips to the Spilsby bottle-bank.

I'm at a loss. I wonder how many mole pelts are needed to make a pair of moleskin trousers . Hope Bianca Jagger doesn't read this blog.... if I could just catch the little varmints unharmed, anaesthetise them before giving them a painless lethal injection and skinning them - I might be on to a winner here - Lincolnshire's first ethical fur farm!