April 30th 2014

 

Now I like rats as much as the next man, but there comes a time when in the process of clearing out the house before the new owners move in when rats become the bane of my life. Now we knew rats were in the garden over winter, in fact two or 3 years ago I used to feed one of the rats packet noodles, most entertaining watching them hoover up the pasta. But, they do spread disease and can do a lot of damage. Saying that our unopened box of rat poison in the garage was eaten in February and we've not seen the rats since, so maybe they've inflicted self harm in the process.

 

However garage and noodles aside, this dilapidated shed in the garden must have been a des-res to this most adaptable but possibly most hated mammal in Britain. We'd not been in the shed for months, mainly as there is a risk it will fall on top of us, but today ahead of the move I donned some girly marigold gloves and set to in my pinny. In essence the interior of the shed contained about 200 plant-pots, 40 hanging basket frames and about an inch of rat droppings. Marvellous. In order to hasten the job (or lessen my time in the rat dropping infested shed) I hurled the plant-pots, destined for recycling, hither and yon out the door, much as a dog digs for a bone in sand without planning or ordnance. With the shed now empty, on with the jet hose and the crumbling interior was given a thorough clean out as the new owners have young children. It was only as I emerged from the shed in a Mr Muscle pose, jet spray in one hand, marigold gloves in the other that I realised the chaos I had inflicted on the lawn. I think I'd gone a little potty!!

 

 

And so here endeth the last day of April, a month that began with my trundling up to London to see an exhibition about the Vikings, a month that then saw me in Orkney looking at where Vikings lived in the wind on that northern most island and a month that ends with my wearing of latex marigold gloves and a pinny. How my herring fishermen forefathers from Skien or ancestral reindeer herders from Lapland must be spinning in Valhalla as they look down on this modern Dane. "Mikill Wotan! Doni langaspjot viti!" is all I have to say to that!!