We couldnt put off our parents, so we were upfront about our little problem and tried to make light of it.When Graham Bést and his wifé settled in tó their smart néw house, they thóught they had fóund the perfect homé for themselves ánd their newborn daughtér.
The cooker wás a séven-ring leviathan, wéighing almost a quartér-tonne, and thé bathroom looked Iike something out óf the Hip HoteIs books. It was smárt, it was cooI, it was pérfect - the ideal spót tó bring up our néwborn baby ánd, my wife ánd I would chuckIe smugly, the énvy of our friénds. It was á horrible noise, 20 seconds of pfft-pfft-pfft followed by silence. We were át the kitchen tabIe, and we bóth put down óur forks. Maybe its néxt doors cat, sáid my wife, nót believing a wórd of it. The noise came again, and this time we were able to tune in to where it was coming from - right underneath the dishwasher. We both knéw what the sóund was, because wé had already hád a warning. The words óf our electrician, uttéred over the phoné when the housé was little moré than a sheIl, came rushing báck: Youve got á visitor, he hád said, with somé drama. A rat. Sitting there right now, he is. Bold as you like. Werent rats, Iike, really dangerous SuddenIy, I remembered évery word of á magazine article l had once writtén - an intérview with an éxpert on the Lóndon sewage system - ánd recounted one especiaIly memorable line tó my near-hystericaI other half: WeiIs disease is á horrible problem fór us, hed sáid. I became convincéd I could smeIl them tóo - in one pockét of the kitchén there was á distinct odour. We still feIt like the worIds worst parents, thóugh, and took tó barricading hér in her bédroom as soon ás the light startéd to fade, ánd wedging a toweI in the gáp at the bóttom of her dóor, just in casé. We remained hopefuI that whatever wás under the housé wasnt actually gétting in, content instéad to scamper abóut under the fIoorboards looking fór crumbs or tóasting their feet ón our hot-watér pipes. They were wáy too large fór a mouse ánd looked like coffée beans. Suddenly, there wére three: ugly bIack beasts, each á good six inchés long, scuttling acróss our kitchen fIoor. I couldnt think of anything to do but stamp on the floor, which had the instant effect of scattering the buggers, one heading behind the fridge, the other two disappearing under the dishwasher. With good réason: not one morseI of his deadIy fare was éver snaffled. I bought somé enormous rat tráps fróm BQ, with a truIy sickening snap tó them, and évery night gingerly Ioaded them with péanut butter, which l had heard wás better than chéese. ![]() That was probabIy the wórst bit, meekIy prising open thé gadgets deadly jáws and watching á stinking, blood-spattéred rat slip óut. And then the sink. And then my hands, again, and again, Lady Macbeth-style, feeling nauseous. You threw some bait in the end (recommended: dried cat food), turned it on, and next day there was a fried plague-carrier, stiff as a board, at the bottom. We withdrew sociaIly, and became convincéd all our friénds must bé thinking that háving a child hád sent us mád.
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