Of mice and men

If we lived in Kensington our block of flats would be called Equator Mansions. That’s because it considers itself quite grand. The French equivalent, which doesn’t have quite the same resonance, is Residence Equateur.

But even mansions have problems. Shameful problems.

We must not jump ahead. Our fine flat has a capacious kitchen at the corner of which is a large duct. This duct carries drain pipes and electric cables to and from the floors above. There is an opening at its base about half the size of a normal door, which is covered by wooden louvres to give the plumber access, and a small hatch at the top.

We blame it on the time when we had 10 soldiers living in the yard behind us, because ever since then there has been a bit of a commotion going on behind that louvre door. The commotion that rat families make when they are having a good time. It makes the dogs frantic with frustration that they can hear but cannot reach them.

We complained, of course, and the landlord said it was our problem, not his. “If I were you”, he said, “I would get a cat”. Yes, sure, and the dogs would eat the cat.

I was only spurred into action when she who must be obeyed was getting up very early one morning to catch a flight. Unfortunately she caught a fright as well. There it was, sitting on the shelf, licking its lips after a good snack of the dog food. (Do they have lips? Well, you know what I mean.)

Down to the shop we go and buy a noxious poison called Rattex. It comes in the form of little swiss rolls that rats obviously find irresistible. I lay them carefully on the top shelves of the larder, and I throw lots down the duct from the hatch at the top.

It was a few days later when we reaped what we had sown: a disgusting, truly disgusting smell of rotting rat. Flies suddenly found their way in, even though our windows are covered with mosquito gauze.

But the problem was who was going to (a) open the louvre door to the duct (and possibly let loose a hoard of angry rats) and (b) dispose of the rotting ones?

Naturally, not me. That’s not the sort of thing I’m trained for.

But others in the family insisted it was man’s work. Once cornered into agreeing to do it, I had to insist that the procedure should be left for a day to allow me time to get used to the idea.

That night, when we came back after dinner, we found that hatch from the top of the duct had fallen off. What was more, it wasn’t just on the floor where it should have been, but some distance along the sink half tucked under the wire plate rack. There was mess everywhere, and even the louvre door at the bottom had been dislodged.

Massive rat? That’s possible, but unlikely. Poltergeist? Probably, if you believe in ghosts. Cat?? If so, how did it get there? But maybe if it was a cat, the dogs had chased it and in so doing the hatch had been shoved around. Who knows?

Anyway the next evening I armed myself with a powerful torch, plastic bags with which to pick up the corpses, and a hammer to slaughter any that were still alive.

The first thing was to open the louvre door. At first sight it wasn’t so bad: yes there were all sorts of strange debris and lots of droppings, but no dead bodies. But eventually, after searching every nook and cranny, one hand over nose, I found it. A rather small rat, but big enough to start having babies, I would think. Stuck in the corner, like a naughty child in the classroom. Ever so gently, I grasp its still firm tail and extract it.

The trouble, of course, is where are the rest? There were many. One rat can’t have a party, and they were definitely having rat parties. So the question now is when will they come back? One thing is certain: by the end of our time here, we’ll be inured to the smell of rotting rat and I might even be able to pick up dead ones without gagging.

But is there something more to it that that? Like the Egyptians (the ancient ones, not Mubarak and his friends) are we being subjected to supernatural pestilence? Flood – tick; fire – tick; rats – tick; ghosts - ?? What’s next?