There’s a rat in my kitchen …

The great architect Geoffrey Bawa (who is so often quoted by my husband) once said, ‘Life in the tropics is about living out of doors’. What he neglected to mention were the bugs that also enjoy this state of grace; the millipedes, the ants, the ruddy mosquitoes etc, etc. For those of you who are fans of the work of Mr Spielberg – you will recall ‘Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom’ – over the past few weeks, I have felt like the female leading character, Willie Scott, frantically trying to detach some creature which is clinging to my skin/hair/clothes (delete as appropriate) whilst screaming and running from room to room. Yeah, I can see you laughing, but believe me – my flesh has been punctured so many times, I am beginning to resemble a large, human pin cushion – or should that be insect blood bank? I suppose I should be more philosophical – I am actually sort of a philanthropist – you know, keeping several subspecies of insect alive …

Anyway, back to the tale. Our first house. Anjuna. Around 10 pm. Starry night. Wine. Sounds idyllic doesn’t it? Until you include the creature highway above our heads. Yes, as Giles and I sipped our glasses of Madera Rose – overhead the house was springing to life. The rafters overhead became the animal kingdom’s equivalent of the M25. We watched frogs calmly overtake lizards, squirrels (or are they chipmunks?) rush home to feed their young and then there were the rats …

Now, don’t get me wrong – I am definitely an animal person but rats just do nothing for me. Maybe it’s their whiskers, the pointy face, the teeth or the fact that a rat, Scabbers, betrayed Harry Potter – I don’t know. But, let’s put it this way – I’m not too keen on rats.

So, unfortunately, it got to the point where glasses needed refilling. I kept glancing over at Giles – but his mind was mulling over Leeds United’s latest defeat and I didn’t want to add to his misery by asking him to use his legs (legs might make him think of the player’s legs, those very legs that seemed unable to score a goal for the Mighty Whites…) I sighed theatrically – no response – so strode purposefully to the kitchen, flicked on the light and froze.

Sat on top of the fridge like an overeager sentry with a fully loaded Kalashnikov was the biggest rat I had ever seen. Immediately, my mind scrambled for an explanation – was this divine drinking intervention? But I knew I was faced with a situation that no woman should ever find herself in – a massive dilemma – forgo the wine and run or face that rat down?

We stared at each other across the abyss – Ratty and me, me and Ratty. Neither of us quite sure what to do. I could hear the pounding of blood in my ears and considered whether I would escape this confrontation a) intact or b) alive. Ratty made the first move though. He let loose an unearthly squeak and I screamed right back causing Tommy (the dog mentioned in the previous chapter) to release all his anger management demons. He flew past me, hit the fridge and the rat flew into the air. Time slowed to the pace of a Kung Fu fight sequence. Sarah – still, snarling dog – leaping to catch rodent, rat spiralling towards human.

That was it. I completely freaked and ran backwards with a speed that surprised everyone – including myself. I found myself wedged between the kitchen and the cupboard – the cupboard which now provided the rat with its only means of escape. As the furry one hurtled towards me, teeth bared, shrieking shrilly (or was that me?) – I saw my life flash before me eyes! But, luckily for me, Penaque chose this moment to enter the fray and between the two dogs – let’s just say, poor Ratty’s minutes were numbered.

Heaving a sigh of relief, I made my way gingerly into the kitchen, scanning every shadow with an intensity that would have made Jason Bourne proud. Satisfied that there were no more surprises in store, I went to the fridge and praised the Lord as the golden glow it contained, revealed a cool, green bottle with my name on it.

I returned to my seat, probably suffering from some rat induced post traumatic stress disorder and Giles met and held my gaze. ‘Everything ok ?’ I sipped my wine, considering my response – should I answer from my point of view? The dog’s ? Ratty’s? ‘Well,’ he prompted, ‘What was all the commotion about ?’ I swirled the rose liquid round my glass before speaking … ‘There was a rat in the kitchen – what are we gonna do?’