The Idler

A Country Diary: 54

I SHOT A RAT yesterday. Just to see it die. No, what really happened was that a rat got stuck in the pig feed bin. Victoria found it. It was leaping up in the air, but couldn’t get quite high enough to escape from the bin, and so kept slipping down the plastic sides. Great, I thought. I’ll despatch it with a quick shot from my air rifle. I walked out to the barn, my gun loaded. Sure enough, there was the rat, pathetically hurling itself upwards, having a rest and then leaping up again. I pointed the gun down and pulled the trigger. There was a pitiful squeaking noise, but the rat kept leaping. I reloaded and tried again. More squeaking and more leaping. This rat was hard to kill. A third shot seemed to finish it off, but there was blood all over the sides of the bin and in the food. We took the rat out of the bin with some orange netting left over from log bags, and I put one final shot into its head just to make sure. I have to say that the experience unsettled me somewhat. Suddenly I felt that maybe the rat was not so bad after all. I also regretted not having killed it with the first shot.

THERE’S BEEN MORE DEATH ON THE FARM. Two of the chickens appear to have vanished. On consultation with the au pair and the missus, it turns out that they were locked out of their house one night. So presumably that was when Mr Fox came and swiped them. It’s a shame because they were the two best-looking ones. Another chicken is looking very poorly: its feathers are ruffled, and the others chase it away. One of its feet also appears to be bleeding. We blamed Lulu, the annoying dog from next door which chases chickens. Now this loser misfit chicken seems to have gone broody, and is sitting on one egg in another barn. Maybe it will hatch. I hope it does, because that means free replacements. Speaking of which, the three chicks are still alive and are thriving, growing in confidence every day and fluttering around with great panache. One is brown, one white and one black. So while nature taketh away, nature also giveth. And they are providing a steady supply of eggs. In fact, there’s been something of a surplus, and Arthur has been collecting eggs and selling them to the neighbours, for 10p per egg. He needed five pounds to upgrade himself to “Guardian” on his computer game, and so becema very industrious. He even made an “egss for sale” and left twelve by the roadside. He returned to check them a few hours later and hey presto, the eggs had gone and there was one pound twenty in the tin. We heartily approve of such enterprise.

TO ROCHDALE, near Manchester, to the 17th floor flat of Christian Brett, who is typesetting the new Idler. Christian is a traditional typesetter and has set the new mag in Eric Gill typefaces. The whole is neat and elegant and much more book-like than previous incarnations, but it also has a more radical feel. We spent three days talking about anarchy and CRASS and the traditional ways, and we went to visit Christian’s mentor, Graham Moss, who runs a fantastic printing studio, from where he makes books and pamphlets all set by hand and printed on ancient machines. This rewarding trip was followed by a night in Amsterdam, where I spoke at an event called “Night of Freedom”, where we debated existentialism and I played “Folsom Prison Blues” on the uke. Good times.

I RETURNED home and went to inspect the apple tree. There is sadly only one apple left on it. Perhaps the others were blown off in the high winds we’ve been experiencing. In the veg garden, the cabbages have grown to enormous proportions, and the broad benas have continued to supply us well. I’m disappointed again with the strawberries. When I go to harvest a few, half of them have already been nibbled away, and sad red husks hang from the plants. Whether the culprits are birds or weevils or slugs, I’m not sure, but it’s pretty dispiriting. I’m considering giving up on strawberries next year. After all, they occupy a lot of ground all year which could perhaps be better spent on growing vegetables. And how many strawberries do you really want?

THE PIGS have nearly completed cleared the wasteland that we put them on. They are fantastic workers, and dig away happily all day, feeling nettles and docks with their powerful snouts. They play with each other and run a great spped when we appear with their food. At first we fed them two buckets of scraps, maltings and pig nuts each day, but a neighbour told us that this was too much. If you overfeed them, then the meat will be very fatty. So it’s down to two half buckets daily. But one worries about killing time: if I was disturned by killing a rat, how will I feel about despatchig our piggies?

07.06.07