Home Front

We no longer have a rat infestation in our house. All credit must go to son Fred, who found a splendid company over the internet called Pestology (‘There Is No Scenario We Can’t Solve’).

If you are troubled with vermin, please don’t waste your time getting the council or the usual pest-control firms round. All they do is lay poison until the next infestation. We have wasted hundreds of pounds over the years trying to get rid of the buggers. We even recently spent £275 hiring a drainage firm who concluded – incorrectly, it turns out – that our drains were fine, with no sign of pest activity.

It took hardly any time for Gulliver from Pestology to conclude otherwise. He spent half a day diligently investigating the entire drainage system around our property. He even disappeared to check the sewers at the end of our road, prompting me to ask on his return if he had enjoyed his travels (Gulliver gave the wan smile of a man used to these jokes). He showed me CCTV evidence of three points of entry: a disused underground pipe and two gullies which the builders of our kitchen extension had sloppily failed to seal a decade ago.

Gulliver then sent Pawel, a friendly Polish man, round to fit anti-rat vents in the drains. He also blocked up holes around the house in case stranded rats try to get into the rooms. When I apologised about the family leaving their discarded shoes everywhere, Pawel told me he was used to it as his girlfriend was also untidy.

‘When the mess gets too much, I throw her belongings out the window,’ Pawel said, sweeping the air with a flourish. ‘You should do same thing!’

Pawel said he learnt to be tidy during his eight years in the Foreign Legion. When I looked incredulous, he got out his phone to show me the photographs. As he approached, Destry emitted a loud yelping noise and lunged at Pawel.

‘He’s jealous!’ he exclaimed delightedly. ‘He’s guarding you! Is a good thing!’

The photos showed Pawel in uniform,

standing alongside fellow recruits you wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of.

‘It makes me think of that Laurel and Hardy film,’ I said. ‘The one where Ollie makes them join the Foreign Legion to forget about Jeanie Weenie, only to discover all the others have joined to forget the same girl! Have you seen it?’ Pawel didn’t answer. At lunchtime, I cooked myself an omelette while he toiled away in the cupboard under the stairs. Brimming with goodwill over the end of our pest problem, I found myself offering to cook an omelette for him, too. ‘Don’t worry. I have packed lunch.’ ‘It’s no trouble!’ I trilled, flashing him a deranged Stepford-wife smile. ‘Well…’ He shrugged. ‘OK.’ So I cooked him a two-egg cheese omelette. It covered the plate and looked absurdly ostentatious. Pawel took a photo of it to send to his girlfriend. I imagined the accompanying message: ‘Look what crazy Surrey woman cook for me!’

Then Fred returned from the gym, sidled up to me in the hall and asked in a low voice, ‘Why is there a strange man eating an omelette in the kitchen?’

‘That’s Pawel from Pestology – our saviour!’

Fred said I was mad to cook him lunch: ‘It’s not The Bridges of Madison County.’

‘I don’t fancy him! I just thought it’d be nice after he fitted all those vents.’ ‘It’s patronising.’ ‘No it’s not!’ ‘You’re like those rich people who make their staff eat Christmas dinner with them and everyone’s really unhappy.’ ‘Does he look unhappy?’ We peered into the kitchen where Pawel was making Destry wait patiently for a scrap of omelette.

‘He used to be in the Foreign Legion, you know.’

Half an hour later, Mr Home Front called: ‘What’s all this about you opening a NAAFI for foreign mercenaries?’

The jokes continued all week: ‘Pawel coming for Sunday lunch, is he?’

‘Can’t see Judy at the Everyman with you after all. Why not go with Pawel?’

When I told the Aged P Pawel had served in the Foreign Legion, she also thought of Laurel and Hardy: ‘You know the woman they’d all joined up to forget was Jean Harlow? Died of kidney disease. Clark Gable visited her before she died and smelled urine on her breath when he kissed her. Aren’t you sick of Brexit?’

On my return, I had a job getting in the house, with all the shoes littering the hallway. So I gathered them all up and threw them out the window.