Rats

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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