The wild boar came into my life a year ago, crashing through the neighbours' fence to rootle up perennials with his long hairy snout, nub up and gnash bulbs, and make a sodden mess of my neat garden. Proceeding to the house, he trampled mud into carpets and smashed ornaments.

I'd been looking forward to a peaceful retirement. Pigeon-chested, I need to conserve energy and have plenty of lie-downs. My legs have lost their spring and tinnitus affects my balance, so I place both feet on each stair. I'm frail and nervous, panic easily. I've tried explaining these things to the boar, who snorts as he barges past.

Orphaned as a stripy ginger piglet by deadly lures of 'nasty salt,' the boar collects father figures. He loves the Andrew Marr show, especially the bit at the start where Marr swings to face the camera.

"Isn't it about time...?"

The boar exhales irritably. "OK find me a job, any job. I'll apply for it."

"And you could pay me some rent."

"Huh."

My fine young boar falls asleep in front of the gas fire and dreams. He and his gang are charging through a field of corn, laying waste and having fun. His flank rises and falls, hooves twitch. I envy him.


.

Frances Gapper's latest book is IN THE WILD WOOD, a collection of stories. She lives in the UK.

Read FG's postcard.

Read more or her work in the archive.

Detail of illustration on main page by Boris Artzybasheff, from a January, 1959 cover of Time.





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