29th January 2024.
January. And, a mere observation, spring kind of springs. While the elephant weathervane spins erratically and hardy Guerns resume the aquatic, nature twitches a whisker and plunges a beak.
Kissing the shingle bank, jonquils now thrust and breeze-bob around the tempest-dumped bonâde – lobster pot in Guernesiais lingo. I take a deep breath and…breathe. What with winds on a par speed with the fieriest deliveries of England cricketer Mark Wood, biblical storms made frisbees of roof slates and skittles of gurt trees. Still the clear up continues. Chainsaws whirr.
That Guernsey made the Aussie news was down to Storm Ciarán. Yet, I have you know, after the missus and my Oz sojourn, it was a shock to the system on return to the Island to find a miz garden, a chaos of flower pots and the greenhouse become jigsaw. It was a bigger shock to discover sanctuary seekers.
The mystery of the conservatory’s gobbled geranium solved: Christmas tree lights reflect in a snail’s froth. New Year’s celebratory ‘escargot and bubbly’. “Squish the creature,” says the missus.
“It’s the season of goodwill,” I answer. But punishment deemed necessary, I lobbed the culprit. Naughtily. Over the garden fence. On to the unnatural: Cap’n Fudge’s artificial lawn. “Let that be a lesson to you,” I say.
Confounding a snail, though, is less hassle than perplexing a mouse. Like the gifter of crotte de souris, polite patois for mouse poo, behind the kitchen boiler.
Then there was the noise: Scritch-scratch-scritch-scritch-scratch-nibble-nibble-nibble. Hmm. But nibbling what? Panettone box, definitely. Electric wiring? Possible. Light bulbs having fizz-popped.
The finger of blame points at the precocious patio mouse. The one aver tous ses boutaons (having all his buttons), by which I mean soddingly bright. An encouragement to like-minded long-tail kin. One such greasy-sleek, glisten-coat, sat on the telly room carpet, glued to Channel 4’s popular property programme ’Love It or List It’. Cementing ideas about staying put.
My granny once swore by mint teabags, I tell the missus. Who promptly sends me shopping. She plugged holes in floorboard and wainscot. To little effect. Small things scurried on the periphery of vision, Granny’s swearing had whole new interpretation.
If the missus and me weren’t both allergic we could’ve harboured a cat. Instead, the missus scrambled her fingers and hit Amazon. What arrives has fab reviews…
WHIIIIIIINE. CRACKLE. WHIIIIIIINE. CRACKLE. The racket of the 360° Rodent Repeller. An electronic mouse sentry. Squat. Gun metal grey. Dystopian. And stupefyingly annoying. Not to mention the wretched machine’s spasms of blue flashing lights that mimic a cardiac 999 response. A WTF distraction for the dead-of-night mutt-walkers casting a glance through the frosted glass panes of our front door. The missus and me sort of regret her late Christmas prezzie to ourselves.
The contraption is supposed to confuse, unsettle, deter. Make the hearer wish they were somewhere else. And it does. Me.
I’m proper out of kilter. Sleep deprived. Distracted. Not knowing what day of the month it is. Example? The litter chase. Not of mice. Garbage.
Last week avian screams louder than the downstairs racketeer yank me from edgy slumber. Dawn-ish. Scudding rain clouds veil laggard stars. At the driveway’s end, the black bin sack of non-recyclables suffers. In a playful gale, a communal beak-shredding. Crows bully magpies. Two for joy get sent packing. Of a half dozen herring gulls, half have their maws stuffed. Why hadn’t the bin lorry taken the bloody bag? I think. A spoilsport, I interrupt the frenzy.
Down the road I pursue and contest a stinky kipper bag. Make a sideways grab for a Gouda wrapper I pull a muscle. “I can think of better ways to spend an early morning,” I gasp to a lone, mortal observer.
In a tussle of her own, her brolly havocked into unruly ribs and flapping nylon, the smart dressed lass stood at the bus stop smiles agreement. Adding helpfully: “Rubbish is next week”.
Shy of his stop the driver of the Number 11 eases on the brakes and sits patient, hands up off the steering wheel to avoid impulsive temptation. My retrieval of a foul kitchen paper from under a front tyre allows the brolly lass time to bid a cheery, “Have a good day!”.
WHIIIIIIINE. CRACKLE. WHIIIIIIINE. CRACKLE. Scritch-scratch-scritch-scritch-scratch-nibble-nibble-nibble WHIIIIIIINE. CRACKLE. WHIIIIIIINE. CRACKLE. The midnight to breakfast time new age concerto. Did I imagine the added sound of rodent giggling?
“It doesn’t work on Guernsey mice,” I tell the missus. Give it time, she replies. Storm Isha’s arrival blew in new arrivals.
I drop a nugget into the conversation: “Granny also swore by cheddar cheese. ‘Mousetrap’ she called it.”
The missus is sceptical. I prod iTunes: Ronnie Milton’s ‘60s song ‘A Windmill In Old Amsterdam’. About a mouse with clogs on going tip-tip-tippety tap on the stair, the ditty earwormed.
High time for a change of scene. I hit garden centre, then Co-op. My shopping list: ‘Snowdrops. Mousetrap x 2’.
Snowdrops have varieties. Nivalis and the noble sounding Lady Beatrix Stanley to name but two. Whereas for mousetraps the choice is bountiful as a sweetie shop. “There’s a very high demand on the Island at the moment,” is news the lady on the till is all too happy to share.
Soon our garden’s a tad more springy. Whilst indoors, the missus and me, I feel, had the belt and braces. A nifty old school doer-in and the lure of ‘Britain’s favourite’, Cathedral City mature.
4 a.m., the hour of the dead. “I have an announcement to make,” I say to the missus’ nose poking from under the duvet. “THE CHEESE WORKED!” She removes an ear plug.
“Have we actually killed a mouse?”
I nod, soberly.
Her lip quivers. “Where did you put the trap?“
“Beside the Repeller.”
“The power of cheese,” the missus whispers. I mutter something else. Then another night, another snap…
“What’s up, love of my life? You’re very quiet,” observes the missus this morning.
“So are the mice. Guess they’re off the cheese and outta here. Them having found a taste for snowdrops.” I switch off the Repeller. “Oh, and I think the snail’s back.”
The Aussies have a word: Solastalgia. Sits somewhere between the sadness of nature’s loss in the home stomping ground and the sense of impotence in the face of change. Fits snugly.
Glad I’ve found distraction in England’s ‘Hyderabad Heist’. I mean, what a Test win! The stuff of ages! India’s in mourning. That despite Mark Wood’s puff and rippers, for once, proving nowt but small beer.
Illustration and text © 2024 Zum Beamer/Charles Wood.
Zum Beamer 