Not content with an infestation of the hair we now appear to have a rat in our garden. Or we may not have. Basically I’m in denial because I’m not exactly a fan.
As I had my first meltdown Paul tried to reassure me that a rat is just like a squirrel. This is a lie. If it was like a squirrel it would be sleeping up a tree not underneath my decking.
As a consequence for the past five days I haven’t really been in the back garden. When I have been out there I have signalled my arrival by banging the door loudly, stamping my feet and shouting. The neighbours must think I’m strange. For any thing more demanding than shutting a rabbit hutch door Paul has fallen on his sword. He’s much tougher than me. That’s what marriage is all about after all.
Today a man from the council came. Unsurprisingly I wasn’t in.
Apparently he could tell we have a rat problem from the gnawed hutches in the garden. Paul tactfully pointed out the two cute long eared rodents who roam freely (ones that are actually invited to) and are partial to eating, well…pretty much everything.
The council man stroked their heads, left three traps, took sixty eight quid and left.
I’m trying not to think about the next bit. I daren’t let the rabbits out of their hutches so there is some kind of equilibrium because I’m not going out of the back door for a while either.
Paul on the other hand is hard as nails.