There would have been a time, before we moved to the countryside, when I would have been bothered at the idea of mice – or rats – invading our bathroom (OK, the idea of rats I am still bothered by. Let’s just hope it isn’t rats…).
But, when you move to the country, I think you have to get over these kinds of wishy-washy, city-folk feelings.
When you move to the country, you do have to get less queasy in general about the idea of animal invasion of your home… and less squeamish, too, about the whole concept of horrible animal death in the fields and woods – and on the roads – around you.
On the subject of animal invasion of the home… this has been pretty much a constant, since we moved into our old house in the village of Bunton.
It started with the mice. We’ve never done a very good job of cleaning the kitchen hob at the end of the day (our oven is like a pretend Aga… bulky, old-fashioned, French and hated by Lizzie. Gas, without the nice modern wipe-clean kind of hobs most of our friends seem to have). Before we knew it, there were little mouse poos over the top of the oven every morning – and, yes, we did start to clean the oven properly after that.
Soon there were mice everywhere (the cabinet incident in the bathroom was just a late re-appearance… if it was mice…). In the loft, behind Annie’s wardrobe (it was a prolonged battle-of-wits to get that one out).
Lizzie, being an eccentric artist, decided to start catching the mice… and painting them. She’d put these long tubes – like massive, transparent Pez-dispensers – about the place and capture the poor little buggers. Then she’d put them in a cardboard box, paint them… and sell the paintings to her rich London friends who don’t have to worry about mice themselves – and like to be reminded of this by looking at paintings of them.
We’d then put the mice back into the Pez-dispensers, drive them a mile away and release them into the wild… and they’d immediately run back to our house. Or, at least, in the exact direction of our house… and, I’m guessing, from their intent, focused expressions that it was our home they were aiming for.
As well as mice, we’ve been infested by:
Woodlice. They’re everywhere.
Wasps. Living in the roof… and prone to hiding in Jake’s bed and stinging him.
Blackbirds. Living in a different part of the roof.
Wood worm.
Spiders the size of Chihuahuas.
A half dog/half fox, also known as a ‘dox’. No hold on, that’s our orange dog Cedric.
Bats. they often fly into the house and frankly I find them terrifying. Normally, I leave Lizzie to deal with these flying, flittering nightmares – giving the excuse that I’m worried they’ll caught get in my hair. (I’m bald, by the way).
STOP PRESS! A couple of hours after I’ve written the bit above (on the train from home to London – where I’m doing my shit-shovelling film production job), I have the following WhatsApp exchange with Lizzie:
Lizzie: Rat evidence under sinks!! I’ve put down some poison and buying more.
Me: OMG!! Annie said she heard rusting under her bed last night…
Lizzie: I know.
Me: What makes you think it’s rats?
Lizzie: Huge poos.
Me: Ugh… fuck.
So, there you have it. The mice in the bathroom cabinets were actually… RATS.
And the scrabbling noise under my twelve-year-old daughter’s bed… which woke her up in the middle of the night last night… probably wasn’t mice, as I thought at the time. It was probably… RATS.
The horror! The horror!
It makes me want to burn our country house down and move back to London.
P. D. Clifton 
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