Open Writing

The workman who installed our internet cable was very quick. We marvelled at his speed, thanked him for being so efficient and waved him on his way. Everything worked. Hooray. What we didn’t do, but definitely should have done, was to remove the stacks of clay pots that he neatly returned to their position by the side of our house and checked his workmanship. For guess what, unlike Pink Floyd, he forgot to put ‘Another brick in the Wall’ or even the old one back.

The cable had been thread through at ground level. While we were away on holiday the weather turned cold. On our return we found we had a squatter whose presence was given away by the scamper of tiny feet in the loft. I blamed the squirrels, my pet hate. They plague the garden, dig holes in the lawn and locate my spring bulbs with the accuracy of a truffle pig harvesting in a French forest. The words I utter at their audacity are decidedly not grey, but highly colourful.

All went quiet for a week or two. Gone into hibernation, I thought, lulled by the silence. Then one morning I happened to be standing by the French doors gazing out at the frost clinging to the shrubs, when a rat walked past….a sleek, well fed, arrogant rat that I am almost certain raised a paw and waved.

Hurtling out of the door I gave chase but he or she vanished with the speed of light…into the hole in our wall that I then discovered behind the pots. Thus began the saga of the rat. In a state of high dudgeon I rang the council’s Pest Officer for action. “Sorry, we can’t help” was his reply. “Everything is done privately now. I can give you the name of a company.”

I argued a bit but it was no use, so eventually I gave in after a lot of wailing ‘that it was never like that in the old days’ and phoned the number.

“You’ve got a rat. You and thousands of others,” droned the bored voice from a call centre in Wales. “No one can come out for three weeks, we’re so busy. Rats have had a field day this year, what with it being so mild.”

I was flabbergasted. Mr Rat had another three weeks to grow fat. No way, I would sort out the rodent myself and paid a visit to the DIY store for gadgets.

After much deliberating I opted for some neat, blue tinted seeds that I was assured would ‘do the trick’. Ratty would love them and very soon take himself off with tummy ache. I fairly waltzed home, filled in ‘its’ bolthole and laid out breakfast a la rat. The next morning not a thing had changed although we had heard it again in the night.

I persevered over the next two nights but the blue seeds remained untouched. Obviously, our rat had an aversion to blue. He was also very determined and had made another entry route via a neat hole by the back door.

This time, livid with indignation, I headed back to the DIY store and with grim determination selected two rattraps, sort of up market versions of the old mouse catcher. Baited with nice pieces of bacon I waited for action. Nothing.
There followed lots of advice about bait. Peanut butter; tuna; seeds bound up in fat; chocolate. Are rats connoisseurs or something? I purchased a bar of milk chocolate, sliced off a couple of chunks and baited the traps. Nothing.

By now desperate and stressed up to the gills with being out witted by a rat, I phoned the Pest Officer again and outlined my thoughts in full! Finally, after much gnashing of teeth, I extracted another name from him, a local man who might just do the trick.

Bless his heart, he fitted me into his busy schedule of other rat-plagued premises and turned up that afternoon. Evidence revealed Mr Rat (or maybe that was Mrs Rat) had made itself at home in our loft and needed to be reminded of who pays the rates. More bait was laid, holes filled in and firm advice given about not leaving outer doors open, putting food out for the birds and compost heaps, all of which rats think our heaven.

Not sure what worked, but something did. Perhaps it was the mere fact that the rat read the name on the side of the van, but the rat has not been back…yet.

What amazes me about this whole sorry tale (or should that be tail) is that once upon a time every council had a Rat Man on staff, a nice, competent gentleman who turned up and dealt with the matter for you. Maybe it did carry a reasonable charge but there was no waiting.

If the Council are not going to resume normal service but contract out to the big companies with call centres in far flung places, perhaps its time we rate payers got together and advertised for a Pied Piper. It worked for Hamelin.