Tim Dowling: The boys are here. The football is on. The squirrel is plotting | Life and style

The Tim Dowling column

I know it’s him eating my tomatoes because he did the same thing last year. And the year before

The small rectangle of lawn between my office shed and the kitchen door is a lush, nearly iridescent green: a sure sign of a terrible summer. In a good summer the grass is a dull shade of beige, dotted with patches of hard, bare earth. My lettuces would normally have bolted by now. Instead they’re covered in slugs the size of hotdogs.

Out front, the tomatoes are huge and mostly unripe. As the days wear on the fattest and lowest fruit on each vine turns pale orange, then blushing pink. Then, just before it darkens to deep red, I find it on the doorstep with 12 tiny bites taken out of it.

This is clearly the work of my enemy, the squirrel.

“I hate that grey prick,” I say.

“He clearly doesn’t even like tomatoes,” my wife says.

“He seems pretty determined to acquire a taste for them,” I say.

I know it’s the squirrel because he did the same thing last year, and the year before. Early on he understood that I had no real enforcement strategy for the front garden. I’m not out there enough to constitute a deterrent.

This year I’ve been distracted by the fox, who spends his days patrolling the front garden, waiting for a chance to unlock my food waste bin. I thought I’d foiled him by placing a large brick on the lid, but it also put off the bin men, who treat the brick as a Do Not Disturb sign. Now I creep out to remove the brick on bin night, hoping the fox isn’t looking. Invariably, he is.

By contrast, I’ve barely run into the squirrel all summer. I even had reason to believe I might have seen the last of him: a month ago the cat was found playing with a headless squirrel. Now I realise that must have been a different, slower squirrel.

On Saturday I am up and out of the house early. By the time I return, my wife is gone, off for a holiday I am to join later in the week. There is a single tomato of the ox heart variety, nibbled at one corner, lying between me and the front door.

“You bastard,” I say.

On Sunday most of my children arrive, ostensibly because my wife has asked them to look in while she’s away, but really for the football. Also present is the oldest one’s girlfriend, as well as his friend Jackson. But the youngest one, who only recently moved out, doesn’t turn up. I try to raise him on the phone – I want to know how many for lunch – to no avail.

Beyond him I can see the tomato in question: large, glowing pink, and gnawed nearly in half while still on the vine

Lunch includes every tomato ripe enough to pick, which is not many. As we sit down I try the youngest one again, by phone and by text. Nothing.

“Does he usually answer when you call?” says the oldest one’s girlfriend.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Until last week, he was always here.”

The football ends in a draw, after a tense period of injury time.

“I’ve taken away a lot of positives from this afternoon,” I say. This is what I always say; it seems to cover a wide range of outcomes.

“They looked strong in defence,” says Jackson. We stare at each other for a bit.

“I’ve reached the end of my football chat,” I say. “If this were a haircut, I’d go back to looking at my phone.”

Finally, the youngest one picks up.

“You missed lunch,” I say. “And the football.”

“I was too hungover,” he says.

“But you were here for supper last night,” I say. “When did you even go out?”

“Later,” he says.

The post-match analysis ends. Everyone pauses in the hall on their way out.

“Your tomatoes are looking amazing this year,” says Jackson.

“Some of them are,” I say.

“There was one I passed on the way in that was huge,” he says, opening the front door, “and just about ready to …”

He pauses, halfway over the threshold. Beyond him I can see the tomato: large, glowing pink in the afternoon light, and gnawed nearly in half while still on the vine.

“Whoa,” says Jackson.

“Now you see what I’m up against,” I say.

“It wasn’t like that when I came in,” he says.

“Of course not,” I say. “He will have waited until the football started.”

“Nice to see you,” says the oldest one’s girlfriend.

“As soon as your back is turned, that’s when he strikes,” I say.

“OK, bye,” says the oldest.

“You can’t win,” I say. “You just can’t win.”