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.