I stood watching this squirrel for a while in Tavistock Square the other day (see also ‘Having a gander at Ghandi’ and ‘Spring blossom’).

He was scampering around, pausing, scraping at the ground for a few seconds, then moving to another spot before scraping at the ground again, and so on. Presumably he was feeling peckish but couldn’t quite remember where he had hidden his nutty treasures.

Perhaps he’s the squirrel equivalent of middle-aged, when the memory begins to fade. I certainly know what that feels like!