…from time to time. I have already ordered the annihilation of six wasp nests since June, and I feel guilty. I now have a seventh, in the belfry. Yes, Dear Reader, we have a belfry, on our roof. Once used as a mechanism for calling the exhausted estate workers in for meals, it is now a glorified high-rise des. res. for jackdaws. Despite extensive cladding with chicken wire, the little darlings nest every spring and use it as an eyrie from whence to terrorise every finch in the garden. I have even been known to attempt to ring the bell in the hope of shocking them out of it, but they have filled it so completely with twigs that the clapper can’t clap. I’m not going up there to evict them. No siree. Now, the jackdaws have vacated their Spring residence, anyway, so the wasps have moved in. More problematic as the little blighters keep coming in the house to check out the winter accommodation. I am afraid that Lance the Exterminator is going to have to return.
But surely, I hear you say, the problem must be bats, not wasps? Belfry = bats; no? Well yes, I do have bats. Lots of them. In the attic. And now I have one in the cellar.And it is definitely a problem.
Maybe the current heat is too much for a bat more suited to the damp and frankly freezing climate that is our garret for eleven months of the year. Maybe it has decided to Leave Home and Explore the World. Whatever; it is currently doing an excellent reprise of its Hammer House Of Horror act whenever I turn the light on and venture down the cellar steps. Hence the dilemma. You see, Dear Reader, (if you are still here), the bat is between me and what passes for a wine store in this house. The Victorians probably had masses of wine: we have masses of space, but very little wine. And that space is currently occupied by a bat the size of a blackbird (I kid you not). And my wine.
Lance the Exterminator? Vlad the Impaler? Or patience? Answers on a postcard, please.