I must keep a close watch on the mole-hills clustered around the fences of my house. I feel sure there'll come a time when moles will emerge from those surprisingly massive eruptions of earth they've created - and each will be carrying binoculars and waving a flag. And the flags will not be white ones. And the binoculars will all be turned in my directions and the flags will have my name on them. 'There he blows !' the moles will cry. 'Charge !' And all the moles will vanish underground again and new mole-hills will start appearing in straight lines and these will advance at greater and greater speed, each mole-hill like a puff of loamy smoke or a further dark stitch across the ground : and all in the direction of me - my frontiers my barricades my walls my foundations... I have no answer or solution to this hovering multitude of moles. It's as if I'm hanging helpless here in my house like a fly already trussed up in a cobweb just waiting for them to arrive. They are free to molest me at will and at leisure - child's play mole-prey.