Marmalade Day

Mr Fox climbed stiffly out of his car, stretched his vulpine body and sniffed the air. The usual smells of the yard assailed him - horses, countryside, winter flowering clematis, sniff sniff sniff and was that... marmalade?

He opened the door to the kitchen and two hounds shoved out to greet him, dust sticking to their paws, sniffing and licking and yipping and yapping in excitement. Mr Fox patted the closest one and his hand came away... sticky? On closer inspection, the dogs' fur appeared slightly ... matted. Sniff sniff sniff... marmalade again. At the back of Foxy's mind, alarm bells were beginning to ring.

He pushed the door open fully, and took in the scene. There was a large kettle of marmalade bubbling away on the range. It's delicious, unguent aroma curled up into the ceiling and hung there like a fog sewn through with orange zest. The pot of marmalade, however, seemed to have boiled over at some point as there was liquid marmalade pooled all over the cooker, running down the sides like a titian wash.

As he walked into the room his paws stuck to the floor. Which, yes, did seem to have a certain tackiness to it. The work surfaces seemed to be spattered and dashed with chunks of orange, lemon, honey and sugar. And, yes, unmistakable pools of marmalade.

Looking up, he could see a faint spray of the delicious conserve had made it to the high ceiling, where it clung like a delightfully tasty constellation.

Walking further into the kitchen, he was not entirely surprised to see Mrs Fox sitting on the floor by the dishwasher, a large bowl of marmalade in one paw, a wooden spoon in the other, a lurcher standing to one side patiently waiting for another spoonful, both fox and lurcher covered in a liberal coating of conserve and peel.

"Hello Mr Fox!" Said Mrs Fox, happily, a broad grin on her face, "It's Marmalade Day!"