Thursday, February 14, 2008
Mole in the hole
I am not sure I can live with the guilt of country life. Firstly, I have to vote Tory. Not only that - I have blood on my hands. I am talking dead mole. I know I could have got a sonic alarm but the moles would have made a mad dash for the field, waited for the ringing in their ears to stop and come straight back over the garden wall, pausing only for the advice "Avoid the laser beams or all hell breaks loose." I know I could have got a trap which shuts the mole in with a colour TV and his own toilet to keep him happy till the moleman came and dug it up and I could then have paid for a one way ticket to New Zealand so the mole could make a fresh start. Or I could let the moleman do his stuff and use a trap which breaks its neck. Instantaneously, he told me. The moleman held out the rigor mortised mole. It was smaller than the palm of his hand with soft grey fur, big pink paddle paws at the front and no eyes to speak of. He said: "Look at its ferocious teeth." The tiny jagged teeth were bared as he lifted its lip. He said he would take it home and use it to bait another trap he had set elsewhere with its scent. That way it would encourage the male mole living in the other garden to dash into the trap looking for a rival male. The children have a book about a young mole who rescues a baby bird, keeps it in a cage and then frees it. I am so not reading that book again.