IT has come to my attention – via a rather excitable vole who reads the human papers with more enthusiasm than accuracy – that there is talk of placing wildlife upon British banknotes. A charming idea, I suppose, though one must tread carefully when selecting which creatures are to represent the nation’s character. After all, a banknote is not merely a slip of decorated paper; it is a declaration of identity, a small, fluttering ambassador of national pride. One would not wish to get it wrong.
Naturally, the humans have already begun arguing. They do so with great gusto, often before they have fully understood what they are arguing about. But on this occasion, I find myself unexpectedly aligned with one of their number: a certain Sally Jones of The Telegraph, who has proposed that the red squirrel – Sciurus vulgaris, to those of us who still speak Latin before breakfast – should grace the currency of the realm.
On this point, I must offer a rare and wholehearted agreement.
The red squirrel is, without question, one of Britain’s most distinguished residents. A creature of impeccable manners, elegant posture, and a tail of such magnificent plumage that even the pheasants whisper enviously about it. The red squirrel is a gentleman of the trees, a connoisseur of cones, a quiet custodian of the woodland canopy. He is, in short, everything one might wish to present to the world as emblematic of British nature.
Contrast this, if you will, with the grey squirrel – an American import who arrived uninvited, settled without permission, and immediately began behaving as though he owned the place. I have nothing against Americans as a rule, but the grey squirrel is a brash, overconfident fellow with the table manners of a hungover badger. He is the sort of chap who would attend a garden party, drink all the sherry, and then loudly critique the host’s choice of lawn furniture.
To place him upon a banknote would be an act of national self‑sabotage.
But the red squirrel, ah, now there is a creature worthy of celebration. He is woven into the very fabric of British folklore. He scampered through the pages of Beatrix Potter, danced across the childhoods of generations, and once thrived in every corner of the land. That he has been driven to the brink in much of England is not a reason to overlook him; it is the very reason to honour him.
A banknote is not merely a tribute. It is a reminder. A prompt. A quiet nudge to the conscience.
Place the red squirrel on a tenner, and every time a human buys a coffee, they will be confronted with the face of a species they have nearly lost. It is difficult to ignore a creature when it is staring at you from your wallet.
Some may argue that other animals deserve the honour. The hedgehog, perhaps – an admirable fellow, though prone to melodrama. The otter – delightful, but far too pleased with himself. The barn owl – beautiful, but inclined to stare at one in a way that suggests it knows all one’s secrets. All worthy candidates, to be sure, but none possess the quiet dignity of the red squirrel.
And before anyone suggests it, no, I do not believe a fox should appear on a banknote. It would be vulgar to propose such a thing. Tasteless, even. Entirely beneath me. Though, if pressed, I suppose I could be persuaded to sit for a portrait. Purely for the sake of national morale, you understand.
But this is not about me. It is about the red squirrel, and what he represents.
He is a symbol of a Britain that once was – gentle, green, and quietly industrious. A Britain of hedgerows and woodlands, of rustling leaves and dappled light. A Britain that is slipping away, acre by acre, beneath the weight of concrete and convenience.
To place him upon a banknote is to declare that this older Britain still matters. That its creatures are not merely decorative curiosities, but living threads in the tapestry of the nation.
And so I lend my voice – my noble, resonant, woodland‑honed voice – to the campaign. Let the red squirrel be honoured. Let him be seen. Let him remind the humans of what they stand to lose, and what they might yet save.
For if a country cannot celebrate its own native wildlife, then what, pray tell, is the point of having a country at all?
Now, if you will excuse me, I must attend to a matter of some urgency. A delegation of rabbits has requested my intervention in a dispute involving a vegetable patch, a scarecrow, and what appears to be a deeply regrettable misunderstanding about property rights. One cannot rest when the countryside is in turmoil.
But do remember this: when next you hold a banknote, consider the creature upon it. Consider what it says about you, your land, and your values.
And if it is a red squirrel, well, then Britain will have chosen wisely.
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