- Jo Page
Okay, not. Six weeks into this lovely, historic house and there have been bats. Five bats in three weeks, in fact. This troubled me so much that yesterday my therapist and I told bat stories to each other which I take as evidence that I now longer need therapy; but I do need a Bat Guy (whom I actually have because in my last house there were eight bats in four years--still better than five in three weeks so I guess I used to be lucky in that department). This morning's visitor clung tenaciously to the stucco ceiling in the dining room as if begging for an invite to a dinner party. Fat chance, creeper. I went out to do errands and generally avoid all contact. But I ended up buying a black blouse with white buttons and it wasn't until later that I thought maybe I was emulating my wildlife nemesis, getting in touch with that inner feral mammal who is able to do more than keen into the cell phone for back-up help to get the dreaded chauve-souris (yep, that's 'bat' in French, folks) out of the house.