I have not managed to read any more of my story today, much to my irritation.
I was horrified to discover, on my return from our walk, that there had been a rat in the conservatory.
I knew that it couldn’t get into the house. Every possible avenue has been blocked up and nailed shut, in the manner of a Bugs Bunny cartoon where a frustrated Elmer Fudd nails plank after plank across a closed doorway, only to turn round and discover that the wabbit was standing behind him all along.
All the same, it was dreadful.
It had stolen one of the fruits from the Swiss cheese plants, and chewed it into a thousand bits. It was everywhere, the core in the middle of the floor, gnawed like a cob of sweetcorn.
I was very upset indeed.
I spent much of the rest of the day clearing up, and trying to discover the source of their ingress, which eventually I found.
At the back of the big flower bed there was a large tunnel.
It was a massive tunnel, so huge that I could easily have pitched Rosie down it, indeed, sufficiently large that I peered down it with some trepidation, wondering vaguely about dragons.
I had to hack my way through the vegetation to get to it, resolving all the while that really I should Do Something about the conservatory, which has actually become a small jungle, complete with giant spiders and ridiculously colossal plants. I discovered an orange tree at the back about which I had actually forgotten, it seemed to be thriving quite nicely.
I chucked some bricks down the hole and filled it in with sand, which should keep them out for a day or two, until they start digging again, and I am very sorry to say that I have got out the dreadful sticky traps. They are called Sticky Traps For Pests, and I expect it is only a matter of time until Rosie gets caught in one. I don’t like them, I think they are awful, but most ways of killing off something which is invading your house are pretty horrible.
We had a rat problem in Orkney, kept at bay by hundreds of feral cats, but they still got into the houses, and we used to shoot them. I remember some contented evenings sitting by the fire, gun in hand, whilst a visiting neighbour played guitar. Rats like music, the Pied Piper could easily be a real story, and they used to come out to listen, at which point I shot them.
Well, I shot at them. I hit some of them. We had some cracks in the fireplace as well.
I also remember going to visit another friend on the island one morning, only to find him stumping angrily around the kitchen in his pyjamas and dressing gown, rifle under his arm. Every now and again he leaned down behind the cooker, let off a volley of shots and swore loudly.
It turned out they had eaten his porridge.
I am not entirely sorry that my life has moved on.
I have posited the solution of a cat to Mark again, but he is not keen. Personally I would rather have cat poo in the flower beds than rats, but he says that he will pour some concrete outside, where he thinks that the tunnel might start, and that in the meantime I am to catch the rats in the sticky traps, kill them in the yard and then put the whole lot in the dustbin, sticky trap as well.
I have agreed, although not with any great enthusiasm.
I am still hoping, although without any real belief, that Mark might come home tomorrow, but he thinks that it is unlikely. The weather has not abated, and he is still on board the leaky ship, the one that is running out of food and water. They think that the weather might turn on Monday, but nobody knows.
It is all a bit of a North Sea Adventure at the moment, because of course every single oil rig out there is going to be running low on food and water by now. Food and water is delivered by boat, and they can’t get out there at the moment, and couldn’t unload if they did.
I might light a candle to the Weather Gods and explain.
They might be sympathetic.
