THE main thing about wooden floors is their inherent skiteyness. That’s why anything on four legs and wooden floors don’t live happily ever after. This isn’t something that bothers me on a daily basis, but the slippery aspect can have surprising consequences. One morning last week, as I rumbled around the bedroom half awake, something light brown about the length of a banana flew out from under the bed, bounced off the wardrobe and slid back under the bed.
It all happened in a single horrible flash and it froze me rigid to the spot, probably because I have some history in this department.
A few years ago, I woke up one morning and threw my legs out of bed, only to have them caressed rather gently by a large black cat. We don’t have a large black cat, so you can imagine how well that went down. Ever since then, I’ve been wary about small, uninvited furry animals sliding out from under the bed.
Having recovered my composure and decided I didn’t have time for a heart attack, I launched myself into full big predator mode, complete with snarling upper lip. First of all, I was incensed at the sheer audacity of something the size of a banana invading our house, and second, I wanted to catch it and throw it out before my wife got in on the act and called out the emergency services. It was too early in the day for sirens.
Armed with a very big book and with almost total visibility of the battle zone I was in a perfect position to deal with the interloper. Although I must admit I was slightly concerned at its size. It was too big for a mouse and too small for a cat. Something in between was beginning to smell like a rat.
At this point, I was beginning to wonder why we didn’t keep an old hockey stick in the bedroom or maybe a net and some kind of spear. Big heavy-duty gloves and maybe a hockey mask would be worth considering, particularly if there were going to be any more surprise visitors lurking under the bed.
Suddenly, I was aware of standing in my bare feet and being rather vulnerable, but there was no time for socks. I had to act fast and, if possible, silently. As I approached the bed, my little brown pal flew out again from the other side and tucked himself behind my bedside cabinet. I smirked because this was a dead end.
Quickly, I nipped round the bed holding my big heavy book above my head, ready to drop it like a bomb, and then thought it might be better to ask questions first. Inching my way closer, I peered down the side of the bedside cabinet with one eye – always safer, I find, than exposing both of them to potential danger – and there it was, jammed into the corner.
At first I thought it was a huge rat; then I thought: “Actually, it’s my socks.”
Obviously, I had kicked my rolled-up socks out from under the bed – twice. Which also explained why I was in my bare feet.
I was recounting this tale later that afternoon to a couple of acquaintances we had met outside the supermarket. I was just about to deliver the punchline when the bloke interrupted me.
“So did you catch your intruder red-handed?” he asked, then smiled at his wife for approval, who nodded along enthusiastically, giggling away to herself.
I had no idea where this was going, or in fact where it had actually come from, but I played along with it in any case.
“Oh yes, it never knew what hit it,” I replied.
“Bang,” I shouted. “One fell swoop and it was all over. I could probably take it up professionally; I certainly feel like I’ve served some kind of apprenticeship.”
My wife shook her head in disbelief and we all laughed, but then a strained silence yawned between us.
“But that’s not actually blood on your hand, is it?” asked the woman nervously. “Not real blood?”
I looked at my hands and the penny finally dropped. I had forgotten about the red fingers.
“Oh no, I think I picked this up in Markies,” I said.
I explained that I had been hovering in the gents underwear section when it first appeared. I showed my wife and she ordered me to the loo. Ten minutes and a lot of scrubbing later and I still had blood-red fingers.
There was a manager on the checkout, so I gave him some short shrift.
“You want to watch where your putting that red security dye, you know,” I said. “Look at that.”
I showed him my blood-red fingers and he jumped back slightly.
“Oh dear, have you cut yourself, sir?” he asked.
“No, it’s dye off your underwear,” I replied.
Meanwhile, my wife sighed deeply as she packed up our messages.
“I’ve been caught like this before,” I continued, “when I pulled a safety tag off a coat.”
Rather understandably, the manager didn’t like the sound of this and kept an eye on us as we walked across the car park.
The couple outside the supermarket looked more troubled than baffled, so my wife stepped in.
“The security tag had been left on a coat I had bought from Markies,” she explained, “and Einstein here decided to yank it off with a pair of pliers and in the process covered us in red dye.”
Suddenly, I felt something soggy in my jacket pocket and slowly pulled out what looked like a large red blood clot.
“Oh no,” shouted my woman, “is that the remains of the rat?”
The couple looked horrified and didn’t hang around to watch as I unwrapped the red tissue paper and revealed an old printer cartridge that had leaked magenta ink. I couldn’t remember the serial number, so I had taken it with me to buy a new one.
“I’d stick to the ratcatcher story,” said my wife, “better than chasing socks round the bedroom, or shoplifting.”