Visitant

A little squeal from the kitchen in the early evening and the missus crying What's that? Is it a rat? alerted me to the fact that our usual routine was not as usual. I leapt up from where I'd been lying listening to Vaughan Williams's Sir John In Love and bravely sallied forth to try and look useful as I stood helpless. Fortunately Noi rapidly followed up with Or is it a squirrel? which was far more likely to be the case given the regular presence of one little chap around the patio and garden, and sounded a lot more reassuring.

Squirrel it was, a tiny almost black one, which looked trapped on the inner window ledge of the kitchen. The problem, from our point of view, was that the ledge was full of pottery, expensive pottery - well, nice Aynsley stuff which we think is expensive - and the little fellow was racing between the items, dangerously close. But it was no problem for the squirrel who, as I tentatively approached (to say Hello, I suppose) suddenly scooted down the side of the sink and out the back door whence, we assume, he came.

We felt curiously blessed by our guest, reminding us of the bird who'd blundered in a few years back, knocked itself out, and been revived by Noi. But this chap needed no reviving. Wonder if he was a fan of twentieth century British opera? Hope to see him again soon.