Dammit, they don't even come from here

I like to hit a few golf balls round the garden, into a small net, in preparation for the fifth major, aka Wiltshire Scouts Golf Day (Nearest the Pin, 2003: Tiger never got that one). All six balls have just gone missing. After half an hour of searching the rocks and shrubs that make the western end of the garden such a feared spot for golfers round here, I started to blame F, daughter number 2, who has been known for posting things in bins, flushing socks down the loo, that sort of vandalism. But she had been under tight grandparental supervision, and would not normally organise herself so methodically as to find each one and hide it.

Then I spotted the Illegal Immigrants. I used to find grey squirrels cute, but that was before I realised they were messing with my short game.

I thought I may be paranoid, but then, finding this, I realise I have probably only scratched the surface of a truly massive story. Not only are they foreigners, and in no way resemble anything in Beatrix Potter, but they don't understand the basic institutions of our free society. You can come here, but only if you learn to play by the rules.