Clouds in the Mind.

As predicted in an earlier post, I now have rats perambulating my garden.

I find rats unsettling, probably because I was brought up on stories of them which did not exactly present them in an edifying light. Consequently, they belong in the world of sewers and smelly places, not an English country garden which should be all about sunshine, sweet smelling flowers, the gentle rustling of breeze-blown leaves, the kaleidoscopic array of butterflies, the soporific hum of  bumble bees, and a general sense of bucolic peace. Rats just don't belong.

In actual fact, rats are just as much a part of the countryside environment as squirrels, hedgehogs, foxes, bunnies, badgers and the little birdies I’m so fond of. And yet I can’t get rid of the fact that I dislike having them in my garden. I suppose the failure is all mine. Ratism would appear to be my prejudice.

And then I read the story of the ill-fated Edmund Fitzgerald (which had nothing whatsoever to do with rats) and the cloud of unease grew darker.