Poetry 11

A Poem? Brain, brain, Gone away, Please come back Another day. Sometime next week Would be nice. In time to write Of men and mice An opus bright All readers to delight... (And other things – sigh - whatever).

Only People White candles, The Lord’s Prayer, Communion wafers Signify God. Black candles, The Lord’s Prayer backwards, Broken communion wafers Signify Satan But conjured up only in the mind Of a people needing The assurance and security To empower them In a ritualistic way. The brain is a dynamo, Producing energy in Measurable quantities. Many brains concentrated On the same thought Can magnify that power To influence external Dynamics and create A miracle! Or a corporate will, A National cohesiveness For good or evil. It could be called prayer, But in the end it is Only people. Good people, Evil people, Confused people.

The Wind And then I saw the wind, Rolling and rollicking it came. Billowing cheeks and pur-sed lips Blowing cobwebs from the brain. Trees in humble obeisance bowed. Grass and flowers lay flat. Sighing and soughing it came. Playing tricks with this and that. "I'll huff and I'll puff," said the wind, "And I'll blow your house down." But the isobars moved away slowly And the wind passed by with a frown. "I'll be back!" the wind whistled, As over its shoulder it glared, But the High that followed the Low Left the wind empty and unprepared.

Urban Pastoral Sightless. Sooty windows high In the people battery farms. Look down with empty eye At all the trees with open wounds, Set in concrete tombs, Pointing broken fingers to the sky. In the drizzle of the dawn Coughs asthmatically forlorn A rusty, patched-up car That lurches out to meet The rain swept tarmac street, Where the road to nowhere goes. And in the shadow of an alley A rusty banger lurks, Its battered shell defiled. Abandoned sans its works, But with half a tank of petrol To incinerate a child.

This Island This green and pleasant land Prescotted with traveller’s camps, Green belt estates to meet mythical targets, Landfill sites of buried toxic waste, Polluted streams and rivers with Industrial effluent. With global warming even The Thames Barrier is obsolete. Wither now this vanishing land?

Say When say is said And said is done, What’s left to say? Except well done.

Insects Two hundred million insects To each one of us! And we’re in charge? There’s a spider watching me From the top of my PC. SPLAT! 199,999,999 to go. We’re winning!

Me & Hitler
In 1943 I was at a school in Small Heath, Birmingham, sandwiched between two great factories; the BSA and Singer, both then given over to munitions and normally a twenty-minute trolley-bus ride from my home in Sheldon. On this one day the buses were not running, gossip was there had been a big raid during the night with the BSA as the target. It was with a light heart that I set out to walk to a school that could not possibly be there anymore (childish glee can sometimes be very cruel and unthinking). A vast vista of summer months without school made the long walk seem like a stroll down a lane.
Stepping over hosepipes, past fire-engines and the smouldering ruins of the Singer factory only endorsed my dreams of freedom from the restrictions of school. In the distance beyond the Singer works could be seen the smoke columns from the BSA. Arriving at what I fondly imagined to be the ruins of my school I was dismayed beyond belief to find it not only intact, but not even one pane of glass so much as cracked! This suddenly became personal between the Luftwaffe and me; I was convinced that Hitler himself had ordered his bombers to avoid hitting the school just to spite me. I have never forgiven him for that. Years later, when I started work in the advertising department of the BSA at the age of 14, I learnt the true extent of that raid. Later still, with a little time adjustment, I penned the following poem:
	In the plating shop at the BSA, Where men were feared to tread. The turbanned, rollered women worked Who filled us all with dread. Such tales we'd heard, of mystic rites, Of balls being blacked and awful sights Of peni into bottles fed. Then hosepipes littered the Coventry Road, From last night's German Raid. The BSA laid starkly low by death's sour scyth'ed blade. Five hundred souls lie buried there to this very day, And in the silent reach of night, Or so the watchmen say, You can hear the clank of a capstan crank And the shrilling drills at play. And if you listen very hard you'll hear the peal Of a young man's squeal As the women have him away.

Requiem for a Dying World

"The Earth and Nature will obey its own laws, let us learn what those laws are and learn to live with them instead of arrogantly trying to control them." Is this the end of living... or the beginning of survival? Download "Requiem for a Dying World" in Adobe Acrobat PDF format

Mr Brock

13 April 2000... 7.35am If nothing else happens today I've still had a fantastic experience: Being a creature of habit I drove to fetch the morning paper at 6.30am. Turning into the drive on my return I caught sight of something humping out of Coral & Des's garden (at the top of the drive). At first I thought it was a large cat or small dog, but when it stopped and turned to look at me I was stunned to find it was a very large Badger!

It turned and humped down the drive at a fast rate of knots and I followed in the car slowly. At that point I realised that it must be terrified at being pursued by this glowing eyed monster and promptly switched off the lights. Amazingly it slowed down. It crossed the grass at the entrance to our drive and disappeared through the hedge into our orchard. Hell! I thought, it's got its sett in our orchard! I drove past the orchard and couldn't see it. I figured it had gone to ground. I parked the car and walked towards the house. Then I saw it again trying to get through the gate. I stopped and so did the Badger. He then climbed onto the metal cellar doors and peered at me over the low ivy-clad wall. I talked to it in what I hoped was a low, soothing voice. Having peered into the stair-well of the cellar and decided it was too risky he obviously considered me the lesser threat and emerged slowly. Now seemingly reassured he ambled across the path and into the border alongside the wall. He followed the wall to the bottom of the garden, crossed the lawn and re-entered the orchard. Last I saw was Mr. Brock humping along the hedge on the field side and not being in too much of a hurry. Believe me, it made my day.

Additional Information: If you are interested in the the conservation and welfare of badgers and the protection of their setts and habitats then please visit The Badger Trust.

Dun-sur-Meuse

Just across the field that we’re parked in there’s a huge tent which holds, apart from the fattest lady I’ve ever seen, several other people, three magnificent alsatians, an obscure sort of black and white dog and a litter of alsatian pups. Judging from their condition and obedience (the dogs... idiot!) they are show dogs and the people breeders. I’m telling you this 'cos a fluffy little thing that passes for a dog, from another tent, went bouncing across the field towards the alsatian’s tent full of confidence and curiosity. The three alsatians simply stood up and barked. You’ve never seen a dog lose its curiosity so fast in all your life - it was going into reverse almost before it could turn around. It went into it’s own tent so fast it must have gone clean through the other side or straight up the tent pole - anyway, it hasn’t been seen since.

The motorhome is parked under two enormous willow trees in a lovely, shady spot. On the trees are some birds I’ve never seen before, some sort of tree-creeper 'cos they zip up and down the bark as if they were on elastic, sometimes travelling upside down on the branches to feed off something in the bark itself. They look a little like sparrows, but with more flecks of white. Just tuned in to the world service to find out what’s happening on the ferry front... what could be more English than sitting in a field, under a willow tree, listening to John Arlot! It’s a little difficult to equate with the eglise St.Marianne directly in my line of vision. What my sketch doesn’t show and should really if I wasn’t so lazy, is that this church is on top of a hill, the highest point around.

Apropos absolutely nothing at all, the bridge in the town was built by the American Fifth Division as a memorial to those who lost their lives establishing a bridgehead across the Meuse in WW11. Just as in WW1, Dun-sur-Meuse got hammered again in WW11 and the fact that the church of St.Marianne still stands is a tribute to absolutely no one at all. The fact that anything still stands in this part of the world is perhaps a tribute to man’s tenacity rather more than his common sense.

The church of St.Marianne at Dun-sur-Meuse

Met the fat lady with the alsation puppies, they’re great (the pups... fools!) She really is gianormous, if she fell on you there’d only be a strawberry jam stain to mark the spot. They all come from Dijon and they do breed alsations - see, told’y so.

Gosh, but it’s a burden being so clever. Whoops! a wasp. You know fag packets carry the warning ‘smoking can damage your health’? Well, in the wasp’s case it’s positively fatal co’s Maggie’s killed ‘undreds wiv ‘er little fag packet; she’s just about the deadliest killing machine around with her Gallagher’s Silk Cut patent wasp crusher. A bit worrying actually co’s she does it with such evident enjoyment - must remember not to hang around the windows.

To re-cap a moment; I’ve just worked out why, probably, I didn’t like the cathedral at Lausanne as much as I might have expected to...I think it was because it was so clean.

Architecturally it’s magnificent, but in their obsession with cleanliness they have sand-blasted the surfaces and removed not only the patina of age, but also the 800 years of worship that was imprinted into the stone. I believe, you see, that everything that happens is absorbed into the fabric of our surroundings, the stones, the walls etc. Which could explain why some houses are warm, friendly and welcoming, because they have absorbed only largely happy experiences, just as others are cold, hostile and unfriendly for the opposite reasons. Ultimately a church has an atmosphere of sanctity and peace because of the centuries of worship that is imprinted into its walls. And this despite the peccadilloes and transgressions of the clergy and their particular hypocrisy - it’s the worship of the people that has been taken in and which, in turn, is given out. In Lausanne they have scoured this out of the stone and the building is left just that, a building, its aura sand-blasted away.

You’re never going to believe this, but the people in the tent next door have brought their hens with them! I’ve heard of liking fresh eggs, but this is ridiculous. Alright, so the people with the alsations have got a bale of straw, that’s no reason to bring the whole bloody farmyard!

The bridge ("Le pont de Jambes") and castle at Namur

Homeward bound... Ever had that feeling ‘it’s Thursday so, it must have been Belgium’? Yesterday was a WOW! of a day: left Dun-sur-Meuse (about forty kilometres from the Belgium border) at 8am, crossed into Belgium at 9am, had a look around Buollion - beautiful town with a magnificent castle, cashed some money and then hit the road again. Dinat (fabulous place), Namur (even more so), skirted Brussels, Ghent and into Ostend at 4.15pm. Drove on to ferry at 5.15pm, arrived in England 9.30pm. Back home, after fish & chips, via what felt like 200 miles of the South Circular Road, at 3.15 am! Three countries and the English Channel in nineteen hours... bloody ‘ell!

Poetry – 9

Puddles On the shores of a puddle A small boy played. A matchbox and sticks Were an enemy raid. A dam wall of mud Kept the sea all inside And the ripples of wind Were the waves and the tide. Brave soldiers of plastic And tanks stuck with glue, Lined the mud banks All steadfast and true. The little boy’s mind Saw no mud nor a puddle, Just vast seas and an army, Locked in a struggle. The game will be played Until mother does call, Then with god-like delight He will break the dam wall.

Love Frank? Mmmmm? Love me? Mmmm? Oh, yes. Really love me? What? Yes, of course. Really and truly love me? No. What! No. You don’t mean that? I do. But, but you just said... That I love you. So? I do. But... I do love you. Really and truly? Oh... shit!

Gentle Jack (a black Labrador) At least once in their lives Everyone should know a ‘gentle Jack’. Coal black, shiny hair and dark eyes Full of knowing,, even understanding. Fiercely protective of those he loved, But ever gentle with the smallest child. A gentle, gentleman who walked, ran and swam Whenever he could, but treated with disdain Those kin who misbehaved. Dear Jack, knowing you has been A life enhancing experience. We thank you for enriching our lives.

Confrontations Confrontations are useless, They merely aggravate the open wound, Rip asunder the healing stitches of time, Open new wounds and serve no purpose Other than salving the wounded ego, Establishing the ‘rightness’ of intention. (The do-gooder’s raison d’etre) But confrontations resolve problems, Expose difficulties, clean wounds And prevent emotional gangrene. Isn’t that better?

The Senses A hawk stoops against a clear, blue sky. But the man with the binoculars Sees only the girl in the bikini. The sun emblazons the horizon in molten gold. But the man feels only the sweaty flesh Of his own desiring. A nightingale swells the evening air with song. But the man is plugged into his Battery operated Sony-Walkman. Wild dog rose and golden vetch perfume the night air. But the man smells only the vinegar Of his fish and chips.

Pariahs Spartan youth camps Hitler youth camps Al Qaeda training camps Jesuit missionaries “Give me a child of 7 and he’s mine for life.” Indoctrination, Indoctrination. Indoctrination. Makes a nation Of children Trained to kill Without discrimination.

The Prisoner The prisoner hides within himself, His eyes alone stare out, Anxious, sharp, Alert and dark. Flinching from every verbal knout. Everything at double pace, A constant, nervous, scurry. Rattled mugs, Clattering studs, A sobbing, breathless, hurry. Oh God! Let the bastard trip and break his neck! Four ounce of bread at every meal, A grey anonymous lump, A fag, Quick drag. A silent, crowded, loneliness. Escape into a darkened womb, Enfolded in the night. A sneer, A tear. Rough blanket embrace tight.

The Plant I cursed the plant in the window, Merely to see it wilt. A tall old plant with dank, lank leaves And timid blue blossom a-tilt. It leaned to the sun and it yearned To be bigger and better one day, But its fleshy pale stalks and wishy green leaves Made it ugly and smell of decay. I am tall and I’m fleshy and pale And when I am old, like that plant, Perhaps I’ll yearn to be better And weep when I find that I can’t.

My Holiday (2000) - By Fred Covins aged 68¾

Friday
We stocked the motorhome (hereinafter called the Womb) with all the essentials: whisky, wine, smoked salmon etc. Maggie insisted on a few non-essential elements like food and a change of underwear and we set out on yet another 'adventure'.

Easy ride down the M5 and A30 despite a couple of twitchy moments when the gear stick kept popping out of 5th gear, probably due to the level of oil in the gear box, but all was well that ended well and we turned into the drive of our friend's new home near Cheriton Bishop in Devon for an overnight stay.

I should explain, Janie and Geoff go back a long way in our history. A lovely, welcoming couple who are probably the most disorganized people we have the pleasure to know. Geoff is one of those extraordinary people who pops around the world doing things like chopping half a mountain down and dropping it in the sea to form Hong Kong's new airport. Janie, on the other hand, is an extremely talented artist and photographer who is too modest for her own good.

Their new home is set in 14 beautiful acres of Devon countryside and is a fairly modern very large bungalow. As their previous home was a 17th century Devon longhouse on a site featured in the Domesday Book it is quite a change. Except for the features common to both: cats everywhere and two dogs, an Irish Wolfhound called Seamus the size of a small pony and a small doe-eyed whippet called Brandon.

Maggie and Janie prattled happily away, as only women can, whilst Geoff and I set about the serious business of putting a litre of whisky into the past tense. I should add that the last time I got into a drinking session with this gentleman I threw myself at the bed… and missed!

We ate and talked well into the night and finally fell into the arms of Morpheus in the womb. (No, I didn't miss the bed).

Saturday
We took our leave and proceeded towards Luxulyan and our goal of The Eden Project (more of that later).

There was a bit of low cloud, so low in places it actually met the road. We eventually found our caravan site very near to the Eden Project and settled into a beautiful wooded site and prepared to pig-out for the rest of the day. Fate however had other plans. Last night's whisky-fest finally caught up with me in the form of cold sweats and extreme exhaustion. I slept for the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, awakening when Maggie went to the site shop. Feeling a little more human I started to get my writing materials out of the cupboard when Maggie returned, crashed through the door and screamed! She had missed her footing on the free-standing step and crashed heavily into the metal base sill of the door gashing her leg just below the knee. She said, "Oh, dear. Look what I've done." Or words to that effect, some I'd never heard before! However, several applications of TLC, Ibuprofen and Savlon later she felt well enough to talk rationally about that f…..g step!

We have just heard, via the radio, that the farmers and hauliers are emulating their French counterparts and blockading the refineries, thus preventing deliveries to the petrol stations. As a consequence there is a rapidly escalating fuel shortage. As we are about 200 miles from home this is a little problematical. Fortunately we have a full tank of diesel that should just about get us home provided we don't use the womb in the meantime - or we can carry on and hope it all blows over before we are due back. The radio is actually playing 'The Ride of the Valkeries'. How very appropriate.

Pig-out was right, we've just scoffed a mound of fresh tagliatelle with an onion sauce and 1" thick home-made turkey burgers…phew! I, rather circumspectly I thought, drank Dandelion & Burdock.

Then we played Gin Rummy (we call it 'read 'em and weep') and every time I caught her cheating she said, "But I've got a poorly leg." "What's that got to do with it?" "Ah, poor Maggie." Sometimes you just can' win.

Sunday
Bad night, only managed twelve hours sleep. After bacon sarnies and coffee we moved the womb to a sunnier position. Now sitting outside in bright sunshine, reading the newspaper and drinking Murphy's stout. God, but it's tough on the road.

When we arrived there were four caravans opposite, today they left. Do you think they know something we don't?

Very relaxed day, read 'Tropic of Ruislip' by Leslie Thomas from cover to cover. Good read. Very acutely observed middle-class suburbia – a million miles from this place. Ventured into the Scotch territory again with no untoward consequences. Good books, food, sleep, what else could anyone want?

Monday
D.Day. Set out for The Eden Project – this is what we came for so what the hell. We were the first to arrive at 9.30am. Not open until 10am so was held up by one of the workmen on the new approach road. Within minutes the queue of traffic stretched out of sight behind us!

With only the vaguest idea of what we were about to witness it is fair to say that we, along with everyone else, were stunned! All we knew was it was £3 to visit a building site. But what a site! All the superlatives like Wow! Stupendous! Fabulous! Bloody 'ell! Proved totally inadequate.

The creator of the project, Tim Smits, says over a taped welcome, "'They' say it's the 8th Wonder of the World." I don't know who 'they' are but for my money they're too damned right, it is a wonder of the world.

'A set worthy of a living theatre mounting the planet's greatest drama'

Biodomes of geodesic design, the largest to house a rain forest that includes a forty foot waterfall. 'It has a script to die for: discovery, passion, intrigue, glamour, tragedy, comedy. It is the story of mankind's dependency on the plant world'.

There are several biodomes, in a clay quarry 500' deep and the size of about 35 football pitches, ranging from warm temperature regions to tropical humidity involving 40,000 plants and trees.

The landscaping of the approaches is done in scimitar-like curves decorated with thin, vertical banners that flutter and echo the sounds of the sea.

Such is the pull of this place that it already has more visitors than the Dome, and it doesn't open until next Easter! The scope and concept is just breathtaking.

One of the measures of this project is that many people, from high fliers in the city to truck drivers, have given up well paid jobs, sold their homes and moved to Cornwall just to be part of this project.

We have become 'Friends of Eden', i.e., fee paying members of the Eden Project because we both believe it to be the greatest thing this country has produced in decades.

The Dome has made us the laughing stock of the world and will, hopefully, break this foolish government and those responsible for such a colossal waste of 'our' money. Had they backed The Eden Project they might have won world acclaim. Now I doubt the Eden Project would even want their support or their money.

You can check it out for yourself at: www.edenproject.com

Naturally Maggie just had to buy some exotic plants and we are now driving around with our own 'project'. Do you think I could charge for home? Even as a building site? I could leave the lawnmower and a spade out.

What struck me most about the Eden Project were the people, still pouring in as we left. Nearly all of them were late middle age or elderly, people who could still remember when Britain was Great Britain. Although there was wonderment and excitement in their faces there was also pride and hope, hope perhaps that what was once could be again.

Tuesday
The fuel crisis deepens. The economists say 8p a litre could be knocked off without damaging the economy in any way, the government squeals in fear at the thought of losing any income that might deplete its war chest for the next election and bleats ' we will never give in to force'. In the meantime the economy grinds to a halt and the police who were warned off the Notting Hill Festival for fear of creating a racial backlash are now invoked to arrest men and women who are simply protesting against a 33% hike in fuel prices since this government came to power.

Today, The Lost Gardens of Heligan (tomorrow, the world! Fuel permitting). We decided to hell with the crisis, this is what we came to do and this is what we're damned well going to do.

Heligan, meaning 'The Willows' in Cornish, was first mentioned in the 12th century as part of an estate owned by the Arundell family. The house was built in 1603 and passed through many hands, largely the Tremayne family. It remained a Cornish idyll until it was taken over by the War Department at the start of the 1914-1918 war as a convalescent home. The decay of the gardens began almost immediately, descending very quickly into a complete wilderness until 1991 when Tim Smits (remember that name - the Eden Project) and John Sheldon hacked their way through the undergrowth and discovered a remnant of gardens of Heligan, including two virtually dried up lakes. They put together a team to restore the entire 'sleeping beauty' to its former glory. For them it began as 'the rest of your life starts here'.

Judging from what we have seen both here and at the Eden Project that's exactly what it has been and continues to be.

During a metal detector sweep of the area they found hundreds of zinc/lead plant labels which when cleaned were as clear as the day they were made. From these they were able to replant much of what had existed in the preceding centuries.

The gardens are beautiful, from the Flower Garden, the Vegetable Garden, the Italian Garden, the New Zealand Garden to the Crystal Grotto and the Melon Yard. It really is like bringing the 17th century back to life.

We didn't venture down to the Jungle and the lakes 'cos neither of us has the knees for the steep climb back, but if the pictures are anything to go by it is just as bewitching.

We left there, hearts uplifted despite the deepening fuel crisis and the mile long queues we passed at any garage with fuel left. We drove directly to Penzance and Tescos, where we adopted a siege mentality and shopped accordingly. We are now safely ensconced on our favourite site at Relubbus and prepared to sit out the crisis.

Wednesday
A pilgrimage. We have been coming to Cornwall for nearly forty years, 12 or more with our children and nearly always to this one place, Praa Sands.

In those early days it was an 8/9 hour journey even in the 3.8 Jaguar that we bought BC (before children). Each year the kids would make a beeline for the beach and begin damming the little stream that flowed past our rented bungalow overlooking the beach and across the beach itself.

So experienced did they become that within a very short time they had created a vast swimming pool in the middle of the beach. This proved to be an irresistible attraction for every other child on the beach and they were soon all excitedly digging away and stemming the inevitable breaks in the dam wall.

The entire holiday seemed to pass in this way and the excitement never seemed to pall. It is also true to say that when in later years we revisited the place these two now 6' 6” louts they did exactly the same again!

Nice? Energetic day. So energetic that I began to look forward to returning to work! I'm not built for walking in/on soft sand and Maggie wanted to indulge in a little retail therapy up in the village.

The cold Murphys was a great restorative, as was the toast and patè. We then sat on the cliff top and got wind burned.

Now back on site with an even greater restorative Scotch and sitting in a far more sheltered spot.

Praa is much the same as it always was, pretty, unspoiled, despite attempts by some entrepreneurs to turn it into a Cornish Blackpool with theme pubs and flashy markets. But the beach is clean with a shallow shelf that makes it an ideal place for kids. And it was delightful to see that the stream had lost none of its challenges or excitements.

Thursday
It's pouring with rain! But the fuel crisis is crumbling and tomorrow we might make a run for home. We should make Devon at least before we're running on fumes. Oh no we're not! Maggie says we're booked here until Saturday and here we're going to stay. Adding, "You've got a large writing pad there, so write a book." Like I've said somewhere in this account before - sometimes you just can't win.

Having munched my way through a box of shortbread biscuits, washed down with a cup of coffee I'm now looking around like a bored child to see what other mischief I can get up to. It's hell being grown-up and expected to behave sensibly!

Drank whisky defiantly all day.

Friday
It rained last night, which is a bit like saying the sun shone in the Sahara. It sounded like thunder on the roof of the womb.

One of the other campers asked me if I'd heard it. He seemed surprised I'd heard anything considering the amount of Scotch he'd seen me put away! Cheeky sod.

Out of bad comes good. The higher authority has decided we might as well go home.

With less than half a tank of fuel we headed northwards. The Devil looks after his own, we came across a petrol station with only a small queue. Ten minutes later, with a full tank, we completed our journey. As holidays go it was a wee bit different, but enormously rewarding.

Rat Wars!

In an old farmhouse like ours the problem of mice is endemic, like the poor they're always with us and every autumn, when the weather begins to bite, they're inside like a shot toasting their paws in front of the fire. There follows the annual battle for supremacy with cheese and chocolate (we like them to die happy) traps - the traps give them a terminal headache. Only once before have we had a problem with rats and that was fought tooth and nail with Mole Smokes, Slaymor and serious traps (what's more serious than fatal?) what I mean is cage traps and drowning.

Now we have the problem again it would seem, judging by the gnawed hard plastic garbage containers! Once again Super Exterminator II put his underpants on over his trousers and sprang into action with a devilishly cunning plan. With a 6x6x4 inch cardboard box with a rat sized hole cut in one end and half filled with Slaymor (an anticoagulant poison) the box was placed in the coal shed just where the garbage containers await collection. On two consecutive mornings the 'trap' has been inspected, only to find the box stuffed with dead leaves, bits of debris and lumps of anthracite! Now either something funny is going on or the rats are taking the piss! It would seem that every time we displace his barriers in the bait box he builds the next one even greater, but last night he exceeded all expectations. When we lifted the lid we found the bait, or what was left of it, shoved up to one end and the rest of the box packed tight with anthracite, a wooden plug shoved into the hole and a flat piece of plank placed across the entrance! This rat is going to die of a heart attack from moving all this stuff before the poison gets him! I said it would take a devious mind to work out what he is up to and sure enough Maggie came up with the answer. This rat thinks he's hit the jackpot, he's found a food mine. And like all prospectors he's staked his claim and is damned if anyone else is going to find it. Can't wait to see what he comes up with tonight! He didn’t come up with anything, in fact he didn’t come up! I didn’t know whether to cheer or feel disappointed.