traum-o-matic

Things are returning to some sort of normality, I cycled into work today, the deadline situation has begun to resolve itself and I’m back on 3’s and 4’s.

My weekend, however, was traumatic. It’s not the requirement, is it, to spend the most part of a weekend in total fucking fear, the concept of a weekend lends itself to leisure, good eating and drinking, sleeping in, late movies, pubs, you get the picture.

It begun well enough, even the work drinks weren’t too much of a struggle. I made it back to a local boozer with Dan where we were joined by his missus and baby daughter. It was a balmy evening, the traffic buzzed past us as we chatted and drank and with plenty of fight still left in me I returned back to my flat to investigate the further opportunities afforded to me by the bottle opener. At some point after 10pm the music went on and I was fully ensconced in my element, wonderful.

I put in a few good hours until overcome by sheer fatigue and the awareness that stopping would be good to make way for some sort of Saturday. It was as I was entering the kitchen to wash up my glass that it happened. I saw a fucking rodent. Its small but fat enough little system scurried across the kitchen floor, and I wouldn’t say the little cunt was racing either, and disappeared under the fridge.

I am rodentophobic, I have been since I was a kid. It stems from a very specific and traumatic episode one Saturday afternoon at my parents. I was in my bedroom reading when dad appeared looking anxious, ‘we got a problem, son’ he said seriously. I was informed that there was a nest of mice in the garage, probably under the large metal filing cabinet by the door, and he and I were to investigate. At the time I should’ve perhaps taken more notice of dad’s quite obvious concern, despite his attempts to make light of the matter. ‘Roll you trousers in your socks, they can get up your leg,’ I was given a brief example via my granddad that involved Somme rats, ‘as if they hadn’t enough to contend with’, dad said.

From a vantage point that I’d describe as conservative, dad suggested I leant on the side of the metal filing cabinet so it’d lift up for him to peep underneath. And here is where a casual indifference towards rodents morphed into a fully realised fear. As the cabinet began to rise a fucking huge mouse shot out followed, in various directions, by dozens of much smaller babies. Dad yelled ‘Jesus!’ and I ran to the opposite side of the garage, but due to circumstance and the sheer volume of vermin, I ran over 6 or 7 tiny bodies, each one being dispatched by a crackling pop.

The sight of a mouse in the kitchen was anything but welcome. In fact I couldn’t believe I’d seen it, so I refused to believe I had. I went into the lounge and after 5 minutes convinced myself I was being paranoid and went to bed. It took a while to get to sleep, despite being drunk I was very aware of my surroundings, the last thing I remember is letting out a sizable scream when the wind rattled the pull on the blind.

I woke up on Saturday. My mind instantly defaulted to the rodent that I’d not seen. Even though I’d not seen a rodent I had to check behind the fridge, and that was something I was unable to do alone. Simple as that.

I walked into the kitchen to make a cup of tea and peeped down the side of the fridge. To my utter fucking horror looking up at me was a fucking mouse. I physically leapt off the floor, roared, and shot into the lounge. I sat physically shaking trying to unscramble my mind to form a positive solution to this situation. First thing, phone.

I called Frank first who didn’t answer, then Jamie who did but wasn’t in a suitable proximity to help, though I was offered plenty of sympathetic advice, and finally my bro who also didn’t answer. I called Myfwt too but only to offload my emotions.

Frank called back; mercifully he has no fear of these cunty little creatures but wasn’t available until later in the day. As I wasn’t able to use the kitchen, relax in the lounge, do anything actually, I had to get out of the house. I made my way to B & Q and decided to invest some money in anti-vermin stuff. I already own one of those sonic devices designed to chuck out a frequency not conducive to the tiny ears of a rat/mouse, indeed, I watched the mouse give it a cursory glance on Friday night as it casually made it’s way home.

I was in the process of browsing the devices when I heard a voice behind me, quavering slightly, asking an assistant for rodent traps. ‘They’re here’ I said. A man of my age looked at me, I could see it in his eye, he’d been spooked. ‘Got a mouse?’ he said attempting a smile. My agreeable reply came back with exasperated expletives. It would seem that all the water we’ve had recently has forced the little cunts out of their burrows, I took comfort that there was a reason for a mouse to be marching around my kitchen. It’s not as if there is anything for him to eat in there, the floor is always spotless, precisely for that reason.

After buying a new sonic and magnetic anti-anything with a small hairy face device and two traps, one humane and one that will crush its little fucking head like a Malteser, I made my way to Sainsbury. In addition to the weekly shop, I needed to buy a sandwich as I’d not yet eaten. I got back to the flat, reluctantly, and waited for Frank in the living room gingerly playing Tomb Raider.

Frank arrived and took matters in hand; he pulled back the fridge and located the most likely source of the little fuckers entrance. After it was deemed safe I plugged all possible holes with wire wool and bleached the entire zone before replacing the fridge and laying down a trap, just in case.

I tentatively allowed the pressure to lift from my mind and Frank and I went to the pub so I could ply him with gratitude booze. I fucking owe him one. By the time I got back home I was feeling more confident, I settled back into normality, made some pizza and got thoroughly pissed to celebrate.

Sunday was packed full of motorsport delights, Formula One to start which descended into farce followed by British Superbikes. I had to tape the latter as Myfwt was in Woking a needed a lift back to mine. She’d been out on the lash with her friend Pauline and was suffering. I rather enjoyed the drive there and back, I wanted to ride, of course, but Myfwt wasn’t in a suitable position to sit pillion on the back of my black bitch.

We got home at 6-ish, unfortunately for me in time for Titanic which I’d avoided previously. Utter bollocks, though disturbing enough in parts to hold my attention, sort of. We ate a roast dinner and I knocked back a few G & T’s. At 10pm it was the Moto GP, a disappointing race, but the taped British Superbikes was a fucking beauty. Sadly such daring do doesn’t come without cost. On Friday during practice at Mallory Park a young rider by the name of Ollie Bridewell made an error and bought the farm. He was given a minutes silence at the start of the race and his position on the grid, 17th, remained in his name as is the tradition when these things happen. His colleagues spoke of him with fondness and genuine kindness before putting on their helmets and gloves, getting on their machines and going hell for leather.

RIP Ollie Bridewell 1985-2007

Follow up to Fridays link, Subhumans…