The way things are going it is looking increasingly likely they will award the Nobel Prize not to the guy who builds the first fail-safe mole trap but to whoever finds a way of turning contemplation of a churned up lawn from exasperation to mole hill therapy.
I’ve got the mole sussed ... I think. Too often now I have brought the hoe down too soon. Next time I will feint on the zig and whack on the zag.
The good folk of my town have declared it a mole-free zone. They have an instinctive fear of slick, pink-faced things sneaking up dark, subterranean passages. Tensions are high as the town braces itself for the mole’s response.
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