Rats!

The time of year has come where every rodent within a 15 mile area comes to take up residence beneath my garden shed. Persistent little buggers they are, fighting through bricks and chicken wire and strategically placed planks of wood to get at the sought-after abode. Once there, they run amok amongst the bicycles and tools, cheerfully gobbling up all the 'industrial strength' rat poison and having themselves a jolly old time.

When the annual migration happened this year, Hubs said he had the perfect solution. He dragged me to The Most Boring Shop on the Planet called 'Big Boys Toys' (yawn). As the name suggests, it was full of men's stuff; remote controlled objects, four wheel buggy things, hunting clobber... and guns. Yep, lots of guns.

When Hubs said 'gun' I just assumed he meant a replacement for the broken air pistol, but he glanced fleetingly at the small stuff and homed in on the rifles.

Yeah, rifles!

A man who looked like ex-SAS came over and started talking to Hubs, quickly grasping that Hubs was familiar with killing machines, so the conversation got all technical. I stood there, more bored than I've ever been in my life, while a crowd of men gathered to listen to the Men Talking Guns. One actually pushed me out of the way to get closer, the brute.

We eventually left the shop armed (literally) with a berluddy big rifle. That night all I heard was PHUPT PHUPT as Hubs hung out of an upstairs window taking aim at the patio. Hours later, the death toll was one - not a rat but a snail that was eating the bait. Next door's cat narrowly escaped with its life (oh god).

Then, last week, it finally happened. I was at the kitchen sink, barefoot, when I glanced out the window and saw this rat coming out from beneath the shed. I told Hubs, and he shot upstairs like an Exocet missile.

There was a phut noise, and suddenly the rat keeled over, then hauled itself behind the plant pots dragging its leg behind him like some villain in a western film.

Hubs raced downstairs, dog in hot pursuit (men, tsk). He moved the pots, and the dog finished the rodent off quite promptly.

They were both hugely excited, smell of blood and all that. "I killed one!" said Hubs.

"One down," I said, smiling, "1,434 to go."

Spurred on by his kill, Hubs challenged me to a shooting competition. I'm quite good with guns, I don't know why, I just am. We stood aiming at a target at the bottom of the garden and phutted away.

Despite never handling the new, highly-polished and much-prized rifle before, I won. Hubs then insisted on a competition with the repaired hand pistol. I won that too, and suddenly Hubs whisked all the killing machines away.

Just call me Brummie Broad Palin.

Hubs may recover in time.

[No neighbours were injured in the making of this post.]

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday
Brummie Blogs: There rest of time.