The rat-catcher cometh

Don’t think it’s all glamour and luxury in the heart of Bloomsbury. There I was of an evening, relaxing on the sofa over a glass of dry sherry and Wolf Hall, when I heard a scrabbling.

Looking up, I saw a furry brown creature catch my eye, then scuttle madly for the gap in the skirting board next to the washing machine. Before I’d had time to shriek: ‘Eeek, a mouse!’ and climb onto a chair, it had gone.

That’s the trouble with romantic old houses; they tend to have romantic old rodents to go with them. I rang my gentleman caller to inform him of my predicament. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t a rat?’ he enquired, callously.

Just as well I’m not easily scared by small and furry creatures. And just as well I’m not squeamish, either. The rat-catcher has been and left traps all over the flat. I just hope nothing starts to smell nasty before he comes back to remove them next week.


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