I bought a house in France to escape my divorce. Clearing around the hut in the garden, I disturbed a hedgehog and two hoglets. The mother carried one away. The abandoned one mewled.
Outside the village I’d noticed a signpost with a hedgehog and the words Centre de
Récupération.
I nestled the hoglet in an empty Typhoo box and set off for what must be something like the RSPCA. Weren’t the French wonderful!
The centre turned out to be a bog-standard recycling place. But a Frenchman invited me for coffee, saved the hoglet, smoothed out my prickles.
Married me.
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