Pest Control

There just had to be a drama between the time the Dail *rose* and the Supreme Court *sits* otherwise what else would I have to write about? The #royalbabyboy ‘GAL’ is so over. Collapse of trial for corruption in rezoning is so soul destroying and worst of all the Revenue trousering several hundred in property tax out of my bank account is sending me into a melancholic spiral, so much so, I’m doing two weeks Bean an Ti duty with an Italian student to cover it. I can’t remember the last time I served dinner seven nights in a row, never mind FOURTEEN.

Before the Rat Attack

When Cost Centre #2 sauntered in from his internship last night starving (they send him home in a taxi, but he doesn’t get time to eat all day, bless) he threw a withering look at the war zone that is now the garden.

‘Did you catch him?’

‘Not, yet.’

‘Everybody knows rats are the most evolved species, they’re smarter than humans, they outlived dinosaurs,' he proclaims.

At that moment the creature appears and struts around the garden sniffing for food, starting to climb up a table. It’s jaw-droppingly arrogant, to think I’ve been sitting out there for the last few weeks, thinking it was a leaf falling every time I heard a swoosh sound, it was the bastard scuttering down the wall.

‘He’s outsmarted you,’ CC#2 guffaws, ‘Rat 1 Mom Nil.’

Thanks David Attenborough.

He looks up the internet, most hits are for peanut butter, all the experts say that’s the thing they can’t resist. Cost Centre #1 is out, but at least he has set the traps with bacon so now it only fairly befalls the other one to improve the strategy. Fairness is something my sons have no concept of. Nor do I think they ever will have. Perhaps some wife along the way will beat it into them.

I donate my rubber gloves to the operation and we sacrifice a knife that will have to be thrown out. Attenborough ventures out with the bowl of peanut butter and complains bitterly about the placing of the traps. Everything anybody else does in landladyhouse is *shit* according to him. Indeed there was a book published a few years ago, just for boys like him I'm sure, called ‘Is Everything Shit, or is it just me?’ Sorry, I digress, this is painful to write.

The War Zone

Attenborough says he refuses to deal with any deck-kill as he expertly smears the peanut butter over the raw bacon.

McGyver (CC#1) returns and checks his traps, commenting Attenborough is a wimp and anyway he saw the rat first and did all the work, you get the picture.

We turn out the lights and wait for action. A Random Cat arrives to balance nature, this is when I’d normally bang the window to get rid of unwelcome feline. Oh, for my sheepdog now (she’s on her annual slimming holiday in Glandore with my neighbours).

Attenborough and I stand on seats inside and crane out the window, as if it's going to run up our legs. He points out the cats ears curving and turning as its sonar stealthily detects the position of the rat beneath the deck. The rat's sonar being more advanced it must be deflecting or disguising itself. Note I am trying to convince myself it’s in the singular, contrary to hardware man who says ‘if you see one, there’s more’.

The varmint seems to have outwitted the cat as well, the floor show ends without incident and Attenborough decamps to Playstation.

‘I told you they were smarter than humans, only them and sharks have outlived dinosaurs, you don't expect to win do you?’

It's always his parting shot.

So, this morning I survey the battlefield after the deluge, the apocalyptic thunder and lightning of last night. The rain set off one trap, the magpies and pigeons have been cheekily nipping at the others. No casualties yet. Would that they were just drowned in a sewer somewhere far away. In the meantime I’m trapped indoors.

And this should be a lovely morning when I’m sending two chapters of my novel to a charming-sounding agent. Only, guess what, the printer ink ran out on last two pages. It’s not the end of the world obviously, but I can’t print the cover letter either. This has never happened in the entire time I’ve worked at writing voluminous reports. Never did I run out of ink before. Well, Copy Graphics in Clonskeagh to the rescue.

Maybe it's a sign.

I'm fed up with signs. This life is full of them and we all know Ireland is the worst small country in the world in which to follow road signs (as opposed to the TBSCITWIWTDB*).

I'm not good on garage maps, too awkward to hold while driving, but I’m great on googlemaps. There should be a Destiny App, a Fate App, you could just go to their list of FAQs as every effing service *provider* suggests you do when there's a lack of er, service, and not just get the favourite options but the preferred answer based on your Facebook/Linkedin Family Album/horoscope menstrual cycle data.

Now there's a thought, anyone know a neighbourhood nerd I could call?

At least Pest control arrive tomorrow, they'll be taking the kids away first.

Speaking of whom, they both fell over when I told them the Italian student was 44, can't wait till I hear them try and pronounce her name, Tiziana. Tee hee.

*You'll just have to Google it, clue: Enda