A fat, black rat huffed and puffed as it squeezed itself between the panels of wood that separate my garden from next door. Shiny, silken, with a long scaly tail and yellowed teeth. Once through, he hurriedly scurried across the lawn (while being chased by my mother in her apron, armed with a broom) and disappeared into the quince bushes at the other side of the garden to play with the cat on the other side of that fence.
I watched over my steaming coffee as my mother, red faced and red slippered returned to the house, while my father stood under the grape vines with a mug of tea in one hand, stroking his beard thoughtfully with the other; pondering over what action to take regarding this uninvited and unwelcome visitor.
My neighbour, bald headed and black-hearted has no idea of his four legged tenant. Prior to today, I would have said the rat would be in good company and clearly chose to live there, because he recognises his own kind. The fact that he has chosen to play with a cat rather than stay in that man's garden has made me reconsider this opinion.
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