At dusk, I watched a fox trot under my window. She slinks down my street almost every night, on her way to Old Finsbury Town Hall. During evenings of the lockdown, the cozy stretch of pubs and restaurants from St. John Street to King’s Cross Road was mostly clear of Londoners, since they had presumably gotten their hour’s-worth of exercise in the afternoon, when it’s warm. By nightfall, the foxes had the streets to themselves.
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