Dear Dave

  Of mice and Mario

Dear Dave,

Most places it rains water. A few places it rains frogs. Very occasionally, in the American Midwest, it rains cows. We should be so lucky. There's a short season in Edinburgh - it only lasts from late July to the end of August - where local conditions combine with a light headwind to produce a most disconcerting meteorological phenomenon. It rains acrobats. It wouldn't be so bad but they're usually carrying sharp knives, flaming sticks or each other. Somebody's going to get hurt one of these days and, let's face it, it's probably going to be me. I'm usually so busy picking my way through the traders and tourists that I don't see the Super Mario Brothers tumbling towards me, and I can't hear them cursing each other in Italian because of yet another bagpipe rendition of Flower of Scotland blaring away right next to me. So I always end up getting a slice of experimental street-theatre in the face.

The Festival, don't you just love it?

Normally we're far enough from the centre of town for me to be able to avoid the worst of things but we've been moved out of the house while the flood damage is repaired. The insurance have put us in an apartment right next to the Parliament, close to the epicentre of the mayhem. We have to wade through a sea of foreign teenagers and people handing out flyers to get anywhere. It's madness.

(Other locals seem quite adept at phasing it out, however. You know it's the Festival when someone gets mugged despite carrying a broadsword).

The apartment that the insurance company have laid on for us is very swish but not enormously child-friendly. Everything is made of glass. Glass-topped dining tables are not much fun with children. The one here has sharp corners, clatters every time a piece of cutlery is moved and gets mucky the moment a child even looks at it. The only advantage is that when a kid drops some food, you can see exactly where it's gone. At least, you can until the view is obscured by all the fingerprints (and, as it turns out, footprints) on the under side of the table.

On the plus side, cleaners come in every day. This means the table doesn't get too grotty but having the toilet cleaned five times a week can't be good for our immune systems.

It is actually quite nice being away from home. Someone came round to our house and sprayed Something Really Nasty to get rid of the insects but, after the flood and the swarm of ants, our current plague is an infestation of mice. There was a small amount of evidence we had a problem when we came home from my parents, so I put out a couple of traps. Nothing happened for a few days. Then I caught the scrawniest mouse you have ever seen. There was much jubilation. I've never caught a mouse before - they usually just nick the cheese and do a runner. Using a bit of Mars bar as bait seemed to have done the trick. I was delighted.

I was less delighted when I caught another. Catching one mouse gives hope that the problem is solved. Catching two within an hour suggests that the problem is much bigger than first imagined. I've since caught another two. There's still skittering. All the food is in high cupboards or in tins so I'm not too worried but it's disconcerting sitting in the kitchen waiting for the little critters to sniff out one of my deadly surprises. Unfortunately, I can't use our office because all the furniture has been moved out to allow the walls to be repaired and decorated. So I sit typing at the table, surrounded by teetering piles of junk that have nowhere else to go, and wait for the SNAP! of a rodent needing burial.

I'm not desperate to get back.

On top of everything else, my Xbox 360 has been smited with the three red lights of death. I tried dusting it and letting it cool down and things like that but it's not just resting - it is an ex-console. Microsoft have agreed to fix it for free and emailed me a shipping slip but I have no idea when I'll get it back. Sarah has been reassuring me that she's certain Bill Gates is personally waiting with a soldering iron to receive my parcel from UPS and that I'll have my baby back soon. I, however, am aware of how many 360s have been going wrong. You know that scene at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark where the crate is wheeled into an endless warehouse filled with about a million very similar crates? That's more along the lines of what I'm thinking...

Ho, well, maybe things will be looking up next week - the kids are back at school and we should all have returned to our normal routines. There's going to be a big meeting at LBO, though, and there are mutterings of redundancies. Not good.

Right, the P1 class is only in until lunchtimes for the first few weeks, so I should wade off through the street performers to collect Lewis. I was late yesterday because Marie and I got ambushed by some very persistent mimes. Today, however, we should make better time.

I've fitted scythes to the buggy.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: ants, Festival, flood, mice

 
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  And they crawled upon the earth...

Dear Dave,

OK, now it's getting Biblical...

The flood from next door has been followed by a plague of insects. What's next? Hail? No, hang on, we had hail in June. Must be frogs. Any moment now a colony of frogs is going to leap out of a toilet and croak at me. If I'm really unlucky, Paul McCartney will be with them. Actually, forget the frogs, a plague of ageing popstars would be worse - they'd land their private jets in the garden and then moan constantly about climate change. I can't be bothered with that. Bring on the locusts!

Let me explain:

The holiday didn't go entirely as planned. The grandparents had a last-minute realisation of what looking after three grandchildren might entail, so things have been postponed until they've made a few more preparations, such as hiding valuables, nailing down furniture and covering their entire house with plastic sheeting. They're even trying to get in shape with a little aerobics. The mother-in-law has threatened to send me photos if I pass any comment whatsoever.

I'm saying nothing.

Anyway, Sarah and I decided to take the kids to St Andrews for a week instead. This, of course, wasn't as restful as having the house to ourselves but it did get us away from the giant airblowers drying out our walls. If you want to appreciate how pleasant this was, switch your TV to a station which is only showing static, turn the volume up and then go about your daily life. For the full effect, mix a bowl of Pollyfilla and go and sniff it occasionally. A few hours later, turn off the TV and marvel at the silence - that's what the holiday was like.

Unfortunately, upon returning, we discovered that the damp had bred some ants. When we've had ants in before it's been at the level of a score of them making a nuisance of themselves near the back door. This was hundreds. They were coming up through the floor underneath the kitchen cupboards and under the stairs. The neighbours had looked in and gone postal with some insect spray which had contained the problem but the floor was crunchy with the victims. I set to work hoovering up but then discovered a stretch of wet wall in the coat cupboard where a two inch high strip just above the skirting board was black and wriggling. The neighbours kindly gave me their spare bottle of chemical death. I went into battle.

Some of the ants got squished, most got sprayed, one or two got hoovered alive. I wiped out all I could and then squirted a poisonous barrier around the source of the infestation. I was tempted to pour boiling water under the floorboards because, hey, what the heck! But I resisted. In the morning there were no ants to be seen. I felt safe behind my toxic Maginot Line.

As the day drew on, there continued to be no more ants. It was peace in our time. I picked up the phone to let Sarah know. There was an ant on the phone.

This was not good.

I peered around nervously. There was always a chance that it was a lone soldier lost on the battlefield and that... The time was 13:32 precisely. The ants swarmed.

Dozens of ants suddenly charged out from under the cupboards, throwing themselves at the line, searching out a gap. Most died convulsing but a few broke through. Marie pointed to every single one and squealed delightedly, "It's an ant!" This kept her busy. The boys remembered an important computer game they had to play and sprinted for the door. I moved to start squishing.

Then the defenses fell apart. More ants appeared. These ones had wings. They flew over the line as unimpeded as tanks driving through Belgium.

It was war.

I removed Marie from the room and closed the door. I calmly pulled on my bright yellow rubber gloves, pushed my glasses firmly into place and carefully surveyed the swarm before me. Then I turned a giant airblower on the little blighters and cackled like a madman. They tumbled from the sky. My victory was only a matter of time.

Still, it was an impressive attack. I don't know if they were lurking under the floorboards planning their assault all morning or whether they'd merely slept in but I was thankful once again for my bottle of insect doom. After twenty minutes all the invaders were dead and no children had been carried off. This time, anyway... Who knows what they're planning for tomorrow? If I was Marie, I'd be trying to look big about now.

Then again, it might be some entirely different threat tomorrow. Just to be on the safe side, I think I'd better go check the toilets for frogs and Beatles...

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

PS While I was looking up the proper collective noun for frogs (How sad am I?), I discovered an entertaining website to scroll through while ignoring the children. It's called Fun with Words. (Again, how sad am I?) Try this for a palindrome: 'No sir -- away! A papaya war is on.'

Labels: ants, flood

 
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