We dined al fresco in the courtyard to celebrate the good life and take advantage of a yet another blessed, balmy evening. Liam’s gastronomic ambitions have reached such a pinnacle that we have less and less reason to eat out. We reminisced about our London days when, at the slightest hint of fine weather, we’d rush home early from work to grab the rare opportunity of dining out in the garden.

As we were engrossed in well-oiled conversation, I noticed a rat run across the living room floor and disappear behind the TV unit. Up we leapt to hunt down the errant rodent. This was not a simple task. Agile and cunning, the clever creature ran us ragged, joyfully defecating as it darted hither and thither. Eventually coming to rest by vaulting onto the top of a four foot speaker, he sneered at us with a yer, you and whose army? defiant expression. Superior tactics supported by a broom and a barrier of cushions finally won the day. The beast took flight out of the French windows. We returned to our drinks and resumed our happy banter.

Tabatha the rat catcher was conspicuous by her absence. She had deserted her post to seek out nocturnal activities of  a carnal kind. If she continues to fail in her duties her welcome will be short lived.