Readers of longstanding might remember that I had a hedgehog
visitor a few summers ago. She took up temporary residence in my shed and
toddled out one day accompanied by two agonisingly cute baby hedgehogs.
At this point
I suppose I should man up and deny the
tendency of my mind to soften rapidly until it assumes the consistency of
whipped cream at the sight of, and close proximity to, one or more baby hedgehogs.
But why should I? Life’s too short to hide the nicer side of one’s persona, and
I’ve done enough bad things in my life to warrant a little balance now and
then. And so I hold up my hand and plead guilty: I find mama hedgehogs and baby hedgehogs really cute.
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