You are never more than three feet from a rat. These
are not invisible, imaginary rats, but real live flee infested vermin
that scurry around under your floorboards and through your sewers. At
night-time, when we become blinded in darkness, they stride out boldly
like thuggish squaddies to rifle through our larders and beat up our
overfed lazy lap-cats. Dirty rats.
Once a
rat navigated its way round Nan’s S bend and bit her arse while she was
having a poo. We were never quite sure about its motivation. Both Nan
and the rat were sped to hospital; she for tetanus, he for psychological
assessment. Neither ever recovered completely and we refused to let
either of them into the house again.
If
I’m reincarnated as a rat I’m going park myself in the bins and gorge on
discarded quarter-pounders until I’ve swollen to the size of a large,
unfit boy. Then I’ll march into MacDonalds’ Head Office and knock the
CEO unconscious with a placard saying: I used to be human, now look at
me. He won’t expect that.
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