Things that go bump in the night

Dear Vicky

So sorry that we haven't been able to make your lovely idea of 'art in the woods' a reality so far. Life seems to be so busy at the moment with Post grad work, real work, child-taxiing and the endless ebb and flow of loss adjustors as the house sinks ever further into the Sussex clay... But let's not worry about waiting for a sunny afternoon when life finally settles down. The rain doesn't put me off at all; if one of the kids - or you with your magic camera or paintbrushes - could capture some of the colours of autumn, we could have our own exhibition. Poetry and paintings.

I haven't quite got around to your sprout recipes either, but as always, I love your enthusiasm!

Funny you should mention the rats. It's that time of year when they start looking around for a suitable winter home. Last year, we had an infestation - I think they liked the under floor heating in our former eco home. The rats of Broomham Lane will be taking their stash of acorns a bit further when they realise that we're not going to heat this house in the way that globally warmed-Dave did.

In fact it's not just climate change that's keeping me mean on the heating front; the prospect of filling up with a £350 tank full of oil every month as the frost covers the ground is actually quite terrifying. I remember when we moved in last Feb and the oil ran out almost immediately that we went to bed in our jeans. You did too, didn't you? Neither of us realised that in the country, you don't wait five days as we did for the oil man to arrive; you pop down to the local garage with your 20 litre cans and fill up with paraffin rather than wearing all your clothes to bed.

Anyway, why don't shops sell proper jumpers anymore? Not even the charity shops with their old lady cast offs seem to be able to help. (I've just remembered your top tip about charity buying down the Sham. I wonder if the ladies of Hellingly et al wear 2 ply?). I've found myself get very grumpy with small children in over-heated houses who come over here to play and complain about the cold. I know you're on my side about this one, and force yours into layers and rugs on knees.

Heating is only a dilemna when Wendy comes down to look after the dogs when we go away. From a hot London house to the reality of country living, it's a bit of a way for her in many ways. She comes, not just for the dogs, but the transformative powers of the woods and the solitude of the house which is the best medicine when you're going through a divorce, but since she's been doing it, her emails are beginning to make her look battier than me. She sent me a link about Weill's Disease after being kept awake at night by 'scurrying sounds' and suggested that I get the pest controller in before she came down the next time. Actually, it was more of an ultimatum. I told her (after the pest controller had come) that it wasn't rats but mice, a natural part of country life if your house is surrounded by oaks, but she still insisted on us napalming them. I'm not convinced that we can't all live together, but she refused to open the dog food cupboard after my warning that she might come face to face with a mouse.

But it was when she raised the subject of jumping ticks that I wondered if she had lost all traces of her country roots. Correct me if I'm wrong but ticks neither like human blood nor jump. I'm constantly deftly twisting them out of the dogs' necks, and I confess to finding it all rather satisfying. I do it by hand now (18 months ago, I took one of the pups to the vet rather than do it myself!). I hold the revolting little thing just long enough for its legs to appear. It's not just to make sure that I've got rid of the whole thing but to watch it try to walk away. Only then do I squash it... Ah the strange joys of living in the country. But trying to persuade Wendy that these things are not going to bury themselves in her warmest places is an uphill battle...

Right, off to the big city to look for a car that doesn't consume the world's remaining oil reserves. I've even been a little seduced by the new low fuel economy high drives that I always used to secretly hiss at at the school gates. Why do I feel that just because I spend my life dodging tractors in narrow country lanes I now need a 4x4?? I'm forcing myself to think Ford Focus. Gone are the days of Saabs and Volvos. The sheer amount of driving means that the future of the planet is in serious danger if my kids continue having a social life. As a bio-fuelled Skoda driver, I know you'll forgive my forsaking style for pragmatism.

Enjoy the rain this weekend; at least you can spend the time you would have put into watering on a good book.
xxx