What Ho Proles!
New Year! And can the Good Love not save us from them?
The Hall has been gloomy for much of today, or at least, ever since earlier this afternoon when My Man received a rejection letter for his latest literary output. He fancies that he has a gift for play writing and this latest disappointment is sure to make him more surely than ever. I tell him to keep up his chin and not let the blighters get him down, but you know what these emotionally fraught artistic types are like. It’s all doom, gloom, and feelings of being unworthy. I fancy I’ll have to take him to task if it goes on for much longer. All I can do is try to keep the poor man busy and tell him that things aren’t that bad.
Between ourselves, I can say that things really are that bad. If My Man doesn’t achieve that breakthrough soon I believe he’ll give up on his ambitions and settle for something mundane. Won’t be a bad thing if he does. We are not all blessed with the literary gene and some men are more suited to more manual tasks, such a slaying rodents the size of Canadian lumberjacks, for example.
Which, by a sheer quirk of coincidence, brings me to the real reason for this post: the Hall has rats!
I don’t mean that it has never had rats before. I believe some statistic proves that we’re all living on average six feet away from one of the things. What I meant to say was: the Hall has rats that are the size of small dogs or large cats, depending on your preference. They turned up on New Year’s Eve and are getting more confident by the hour. Having been reading Camus’s ‘The Plague’, you can imagine how fretful I’ve become.
The pest control chap visited us today and turned white when he saw one of these critters go bounding gazelle-like across the drive. Says he’s never seen a larger rat in his life and wonders if he has the ammunition to knock them out. I tagged one today with the shotgun but I don’t believe it even slowed the animal down one bit.
Rest assured, this subject will keep me busy for the next few days but I hope to keep you abreast of the hunt. We’re heading down into the sewers tomorrow.
Until then and might I say that it’s damn good to be back, irrespective of My Man’s constant literary failure and any rodent problems. I also hope to have a sonnet written in response my dear Momentary Academic's excellent suggestion that we start the New Year with a bit of literary fun. I'd ask My Man to write one as well but I don't think he could handle any more criticism.
Yours.
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8 comments:
Please tell your man to keep working on his plays and other fancies. This type of stuff is what keeps us human. He can work and write; it's possible. It is.
Oh Momentary, let's not encourage him! I tell you that the man's deluded. People of his type are not meant to find such success in life. Between you and me, I think he has very little talent and should limit his scribblings to the grocery list.
In my mind, it is impossible to work and to write. As a writer, one must devote oneself to the muse. As a worker, one must devote oneself to one's master. And I certainly do not wish to share My Man with a muse.
Nevertheless, I suppose I shall continue to encourage him. He says he might try your sonnet challenge, though I fear he will see my own efforts and realise how pointless that will be...
Sir,
With the various Bolshevik hunting bans that presently afflict the Mother Country - I think that you have found the ideal replacement for foxes. You may have to dismount from your horses and you may have to be armed - but surely the dogs would be able to chase a few of the Blighters out into the open and a couple of blasts with an elephant gun would fix them.
Yours sincerely,
Mild Colonial Boy, Esq.
"a couple of blasts with an elephant gun would fix them" - the rats that is not the dogs.
My dear friend: these rats would trouble a pack of hounds. We tried to detonate them today and they laughed it off. I'm beginning to fear the worst. I believe it's linked to climate change and the blighters aren't dying off each year.
However, your suggestion regarding an elephant gun is a sound one and I commend you for it. I've despatched My Man to the attic to see if he can find me one. I've not seen an elephant gun in the house since my Uncle Leopold was caught for that ivory smuggling operation he was operating. I'm even sure we'd have the ammunition should we find the gun. Any suggestions at to the right load for a man about to hunt rat?
Sir,
I'm afraid that I'm unfamiliar with the more archaic elephant guns - you might have to try some more modern American bigbore guns (http://www.470mbogo.com/BigBoreCompendium/), perhaps the 600 Overkill - apparently it can fire brass solids bullets 6 feet into an oak log (handy if you're ever attacked by a hostile tree).
Or you may have to do as some of my fellow Australians do when hunting boars and put armour and padding on the pigdogs.
Or if you really wish to take fewer chances - you might want to try gassing the rodents out - no animal is immune to chlorine or something similar.
Yours sincerely,
Mild Colonial Boy.
Sir,
My Man understands every word you type and sends on his regards as one man of ordinance to another.
From what you seem to be saying, the perfect rat gun is a bit like a canon. Luckily, we have one of those sitting outside the Hall. It's certainly of the bigbore variety. Though this infestation of rats is at an end (see my more recent post), I've instructed My Man to ensure the canon is loaded and primed at all times. Should have thought of it sooner. A primed canon on the front lawn can come handy at all time and I look forward to trying it out.
As for the notion of gassing them... I confess that I'm not a man to go gassing animals. It just doesn't seem like the sort of thing an Englishman should get up to. I like to give the blighters a chance, even if it's at the muzzle end of a pack of hounds.
Anyway, thanks again for the martial advice,
Toodle pip.
The Hon. JPM.
Dear Sir,
In regard to your remarks that "A primed canon on the front lawn can come handy at all time and I look forward to trying it out" - may I suggest the next time the Jehovah's Witnesses come calling.
Regards,
Mild Colonial Boy, Esq.
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