I am being tormented by a small, furry squirrel. No, he’s not cute. He’s evil. He’s been burying cob nuts all over my lawn. He has the whole of Dorset to bury nuts but no, only my lawn will do. There are great holes where the grass has been dug up and torn out. Cursing his squirrelly fur, I stomp the wounded grass back into place, while he sits on a fence post, rubbing his little paws, grateful that I’m helping him hide his blasted nuts so beautifully from the other squirrels. I am part of his evil masterplan.
We’ve developed a kind of battlefield ritual. I cross the lawn to the summerhouse, armed with a cup of earl grey tea, my laptop and a hard stare. Evil Squirrel sits on the fence, watching. I hiss at him. He blinks. I sip tea.
I listen to my iplayer. There is no internet so, having run out of work avoidance, I start to type. I see a grey flash streak across the fence. The lawn is quiet. But, I’m good at this, I’ve learnt to be suspicious. Putting down the laptop, (nearly strangling myself with the headphones I’ve forgotten I’m wearing), I sneak out. I spy the little monster, he’s digging a frigging hole behind the tree, out of sight from the summerhouse. He freezes, sensing his nemesis is nigh, and I leap out and run across the grass screeching like a banshee. He runs away.
I sit in the summerhouse, working away. Every time he sneaks onto the fence, I fix him with a glare and he scarpers. ‘I’ve won! I’ve won!’ I sing happily to myself.
Then it starts.
Yup. He’s tap dancing on the roof to torture me. If he’s not allowed to bury nuts in the lawn, then I’m not allowed to work in the summerhouse.
So, Jocasta, if you’re reading this. It’s not my fault that I didn’t get enough words done today. It was the squirrel.