My friend JD, the
promiscuous linguist Language Omnivore from Tuttle Publishing, sent me a link to an interesting article about my neighbourhood, Eastleigh, as he knows I’m not the kind of person who would normally read The Economist.
Vermin, not politicians, was the subject of the first paragraph. A local resident asked the Tory campaigners to deal with his urgent need: “We need a bait-box.”
In this idyllic suburb of Eastleigh, apart from the HSBC bank robbery, which involved the flying squad hiding in a public toilet in the bush then out they leapt and shot dead 2 robbers, it’s a safe place, enhanced with a few pampas grass in some gardens.
My mother is not aware that apart from dealing with hens, chicken litter, chicken missing and murders, her daughter has also been trying to outwit some vermin.
Two years ago, my nights were broken by the tap dancing from the loft in the middle of the night. How many mice or rats? I would wonder. Two, three, or more? From their rhythms, I knew that they danced in a highly synchronised fashion like the River Dance. Other than that, In the garden, some visitors were also stealing food, and we caught some of them.
One day, we caught two mice in one new mousetrap left in the garden. My husband thought these mice were plain stupid as no bait was in the trap yet. My husband decided to let them go in the woods as he couldn’t bring himself to hurt stupid creatures. “I’ll release them into the woods, and they’re so stupid they’ll not find their way back.” He grabbed my Waitrose heavy duty shopping bag and I stopped him just quick enough. Luckily I found the Ikea bag the right size for the mousetrap (with 2 mice in).
The next time when we caught a rat, I was shocked to see the size of it. It was overweight. How much chicken food had it stolen? This time, my husband did what a man was called to do in a crisis. While he was dealing with it, I pretended nothing unpleasant was happening in the garden but I knew that the process involved some water.
In a half-awake state with the River Dance rhythms ringing in my ears, I phoned Pest Control in Eastleigh. A wonderful man turned up, fully equipped. He inspected our garden, house, garage and loft carefully and looked for any possible holes. He laid some poisons down. I learnt this useful expression, “I’ll bait your garage/garden/loft up.” My new found hero was as sharp as the 007. He quickly identified two holes in the garden. He also went into the drain to inspect thoroughly. He poured in poisons.
A week later, my superman came back. He inspected our property again. Only some poisons in the garage were taken. Surprisingly most poisons remained untouched.
His two visits cost £30 pounds and I considered the money well spent. For a long time, the dancing in the loft seemed to have stopped. However, I could still hear their occasional footsteps.
Here is my story about vermin in Eastleigh, just a day before the by-election. Eastleigh is certainly weird and fascinating, isn’t it?
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- “Hens down! More hens down!”
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- Rat, I caught you!