Four days, two new roofs (small extensions to main house), three roofers, two electricians, layers of tile and cement dust, a small skip, innumerably mugs of tea and bacon sandwiches later (don’t get me started on the pound notes) and we like to think we are now squirrel proof.
However, the squirrel man (more pound notes) knows otherwise. They won’t give up, he says. They think that roof space is theirs now, he says. So a trap has been set, with peanut butter – irresistible, he says – and we wait. The neighbours have been alerted and small children and cats advised to stay in.
The squirrels wait too, and watch, from their camouflaged hides, amused by our laughable attempts to outwit nature, sharpening their teeth for the next wave.
The trap remains empty.
My aunt feeds her local squirrels with peanuts when they knock on her garden door. I must gently warn her, that way madness lies; they are ninjas I tell you.