A COUPLE of weeks ago, if someone had asked me where I was living, I would most definitely have told them that I lived with my average-sized family in the countryside – no pets, no elderly relatives and most definitely, no lodgers. But, after recent events I am not so sure.
I have discovered to my horror, that not only do we have unwelcome visitors, but the numbers are growing daily to the size of a shanty town. And to make matters worse, the rural idyll that we strived so long to secure has suddenly been turned into an urban nightmare, a thriving, bustling city – going under the name of Gotham.
Yes, you have guessed it, we have become home to a colony of bats. And I’m not talking about a handful of furry, winged friends either. No, by my estimation, we must have a hundred or more of the creatures living quite happily under the eaves on every corner of the house.
Unsurprisingly, the boys think our new tenants are ‘savage’ and never tire of watching their cute little bodies (?) squeeze out under the fascia every evening at dusk as they set off about their business – swooping and soaring into the trees and bushes beyond.
This part of their routine, I can handle – because for every little bat that goes in search of his daily dinner, three thousand insects will disappear from our environs. And with the amount of flying mice living in our roof top, that’s a huge dent in the local fly population.
But with every up, there has to be a down side and in this case it’s dropping down all over the place. Eating bugs must make a bat’s bowels work overtime because we are covered nightly from a height. The window sills, the walls, the cars, the plants, you name it, every morning we are graced with a fresh production.
Despite the daily routine of sweeping and swearing, I have forced myself to admit that while they are outside the house, keeping us free of insects, I can live with shovelling dirt every morning.
That is, until they decided to have a look inside.
Last week, in the dead of night, I was woken by blood curdling screams. The bedroom door burst open and my middle son stood there babbling and wailing about something flying around his room.
I told him it was a dream and all he had to do was go back to sleep and all would be forgotten. But he was adamant – there was definitely something large and scary behind his bedroom door.
Although I assured him that it was only his imagination, I wasn’t brave (or foolish) enough to check for myself, so wearily ‘Daddy’ went to investigate the outlandish claims.
From the safety of the duvet, we heard him tiptoe down the corridor, we heard the door open, then close swiftly behind him – then there was silence.
With baited breath we waited for him to return, but as the minutes ticked by, there was no sound. For all my talk, I was actually beginning to get a bit nervous – images of ghouls and goblins popped into my mind as I reassured my son that his Dad had probably fallen asleep in the other room.
But after what seemed like an eternity later, we heard the door open and our hero returned.
“What were you doing, what was it, why were you gone so long?” the questions tumbled out as my husband nonchalantly returned from his mission.
He casually informed me that a bat had broken through our defences and had managed to enter the building.
“That is it – those creatures have got to go. First thing tomorrow we will get someone to get rid of them.” I declared.
But I was reminded that they are a protected species and can stay put until they are good and ready to move out. In the meantime, I was encouraged to ‘enjoy the privilege of their company’.
Protected my foot! And who is going to look after us, when the entire population decide that it is warmer inside than out, I wonder.
Looks like Batman will be doing nights’ for the next couple of weeks.