Squirrel In The Loft...

Night. All is dark and quiet.* I am lying in bed and sleep is beckoning as I drift in that strange crossover country between memory and dream (did I really have a conversation about cannibalisitic penguins?). Suddenly, a noise. A skittering, scritching noise. Where? Above me. Scratching and rustling. Sleep has fled and in its place is a miraculous feeling towards the squirrel in the loft.

I don't remember exactly when he moved in. There was no formal invitation and there was certainly no contract. All I knew was that he was exactly the sort of housemate that nobody desired. "But how could you resent the cuddly, fluffy squirrel when you so desperately wanted a pet one as a youth," I hear you ask. All I can say is that I am a fickle creature and that if you take up residence above my bedroom with what appears to be the sole purpose of making scratching noises, don;t expect me to be your biggest fan.

This wasn't enough for our sciuridaen interloper, oh no. For, you see, the loft of the house that is ma and Pa's is a veritable treasure trove of stuff and things, toys and games, photos and mementos, books and magazines, nick nacks and gewgaws. There is somewhat of a tendency towards hoarding in the house (not in a crazy piles of newspapers or jars of urine way, mind you) and the loft is stocked to the rafters. All of which was the icing on the lofty cake for Mr Squirrel.

It was upon a routine "clear out the loft but actually keep pretty much all of it just move it around a bit" mission the we discovered the nibbled remains of many possessions. This necessitated the implementation of the Big Blue Plastic Boxes for storage and the squirrels epicurean vandalism was partly thwarted.

A few years back, the loft was redecorated and a new lining installed. After that, the lofty shenanigans pretty much ceased and the local squirrels took to perching on the edge of the roof and shouting angrily instead (oh well, you can't have everything). The legend of the squirrels would always live on in song, however...

* Some poetic licence is being used her as Ma and Pa's house is one street away from a train station so floodlights and night freight trains do not strictly speaking make dark and quiet.