It is an interesting sociological point that some of the most sought-after residences in the UK are places where animals used to live. Up and down the country, people are putting stripped flooring in cow sheds, chintz sofas where horses once fattened on hay and iron bedsteads where once the pig was more equal than others. The important thing I found, on making such a conversion, was to ensure the previous occupants all got notice about the change of use.
The builders who did my conversion were perfectly pleasant. They left the requisite number of old boots, pieces of discarded hardware and a soft-porn magazine under the one inch of brown material they were happy to describe as topsoil in the garden. But the house itself looks very nice.
So nice indeed that many of my outdoor friends wish to join me at my fireside. I don't really mind. I have come to respect the spiders with legs so long they can play more piano chords than me; I have come to accept the beetles and bugs that nestle in bits of old oak. But I would like to draw the line at bats.
Can I just say straight away that I am environmentally conscious. I think bats should live in barns and belfries and other architectural matter beginning with B. I just don't want them in my barn.
On the single night this summer when there has actually been some heat, I made the mistake of leaving an upstairs window open. I awoke to the sound of a faint, swishing wind and a squeak as something very small and very black flew in distress above my head. Along with being woken on an ocean liner by the iceberg-collision alarm, this is one of the more startling ways to depart slumber. I leaped from bed and did what any sensible woman would do – put on a bobble hat. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I had an image of bats liking nothing better than embedding themselves in your hairdo. The bat continued to circulate in some distress. I added wellingtons and a scarf just in case. Thus attired, I was ready to face my intruder.
The bat was small but speedy. I found I could neither catch the thing nor get away from it. We circled each other in mutual fear and, mentally at least, I think the bat, too, put on unsuitable headgear and footwear.
I reached for the trusty Yellow Pages and phoned a man who claimed he wished to deal with pests at any time, night or day. He, like most sensible creatures of his daily work, was asleep. "There's a bat in my house," I said.
"So?" he replied.
I awoke to the sound of a faint, swishing wind and a squeak as something very small and very black flew in distress above my head
"I want you to come and get rid of it," I said as calmly as a woman under attack can be.
"Can't," he yawned.
"But your ad says 24 hours. That you will come out night and day," I whined.
"Yeah, but not bats. Bats are a protected species."
My hat was low over my ears and I thought I hadn't heard him until he patiently explained that no one can get rid of a bat. Bats are allowed to stay where they like. It's the law.
I put the phone down and eyed my new resident. He had stopped circling and was now clinging to a curtain in the hall. Not a very big creature, but not my idea of a pet either. The dog had by now decided to take an interest. I think he was aroused initially by my outfit which looked promisingly like something one might wear on a walk. He circled the bat, the bat circled him, I circled them both. It was getting none of us anywhere. I went back to sleep in cowboy fashion: with my boots on.
In the morning, the little bat was dead.
He had flown into one of the plate-glass windows, which was sad but I think reflects badly on his radar skills. I don't know what I would have done if he had stayed. I mean, strictly speaking, the bat – never having bought into the capitalist system – believed I was living in his house.
Source
Housing Today
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