The traps weren’t set the night I was away, nor the following night but, all the same, I’ve caught ten rats so far. Or rather, I’ve killed ten rats. The morning I went to London, I went down to feed the chickens and found four in traps, but one was just caught by a foot. I let it go. It squealed in terror and I would have had to deal with it more brutally than I was prepared to. But there, ten rats fewer to breed in the spring. I have to blank out a bit of my mind that doesn’t want to cope with it. I’ve got a number of little oubliettes in my brain, where the trapdoor is kept firmly shut, it’s safer that way.
When we arrived at the station on Wednesday, we huddled into the (warm and reasonably comfortable) waiting room until the train was about to come, because it was cold and clammy. And our good friends Bobbie and Simon came in, a few minutes later. It was her birthday – which means she’d caught up with me and Simon will match us in a few more months – and she’s had a rough time this year, so they’d chosen a jolly day out. We said we were going to the theatre too and Bobbie supposed our choice was more highbrow than theirs – Labour of Love/Kinky Boots – I s’pose. I am solemn, I can’t deny it, though the play was my sister’s choice this time.
Today – let’s see, what has happened? The usual, feeding of animals and disposing of rat, feeding of ourselves. I made French (style) onion soup yesterday, so we had half of it for lunch with some toasted cheese. The proper thing of floating the slices on top doesn’t greatly appeal to either of us, so I served it on separate plates. I made yoghurt, LT split logs and barrowed them up, I changed the bedlinen and finished turning out the larder. I’d found several bottles of home-made liqueur and rebottled them, and today it was the turn of the sloe gin. Three lots, so I conscientiously tasted them all. The best was already in a suitable bottle, the other two could go in smaller, but more attractive ones. I was a bit giggly for a while.
I’ve got things I should get on with, but working in the evenings is for absolute necessity only, nowadays. Just a couple of emails I must write. I still let the answerphone pick up calls and the last cold call was at 8.15, just as we were eating dinner. It’s so damn rude, as well as intrusive. Just as well I didn’t pick up the phone, I might have indicated a touch of frost in my demeanour.
Plans for the rest of the evening, after these two necessary emails – absolutely nothing. I’ve read the newspaper, apart from half the colour supplement, so I’ll just drink another glass of wine and hug a husband. Probably my own.