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Mrs Lavinia Fox

Lavinia Fox. Old school. Born 'behind the Colours' to military parents somewhere in India at a date she keeps conveniently forgetting to mention.  Hardy perennial Girl Guide.  Diarist.  

Avid collector of odd people. Scourge of the Wehrmacht.

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Appears in Juliet's works:

The Wit and Wisdom of Hilda Ffinch: The Bird With All The Answers (Published 2020)

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Mrs Fox was just glad of the lift, taxis were bloody hard to come by and her feet were killing her.

England expected Mrs Fox's temperamental chickens to fire out eggs for the wounded like tanners from a one-armed-bandit. With Clucking Clara refusing to lay and in danger of becoming drumsticks, Mrs Fox managed to fool The Man From The Ministry with a quick slight of hand and a new potato. Relieved, Clara produced scrambled eggs for tea, a frittata for supper and three omelettes for the walking wounded in Little Hope for breakfast...

"Mrs Fox! Mrs Fox!" shouted Constable Clink excitedly, "I do believe I can see your pussy!" Mrs Fox allowed herself a brief moment of panic before shouting back "Kitchener's at home, dear! This is me fox fur!"

To be honest, getting her big end wedged into Henry VIII's plank did rather take the shine off the Empire Day parade...

Once again Mrs Fox had neglected to tell the vicar who was coming to dinner...

To be fair, one had to admire an American erection when one saw one, that flagpole was just the ticket on the top of the Town Hall...

Given that Mrs Fox couldn't hit a barn door at five paces and that thing hadn't been fired since 1812, it was safe to assume that the pigeon community was quite safe..

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"Yes, that's right. Three bottles of gin and a tin of Nuttall's Mintoes, please..."

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