Rats, Defeated

Let me tell you a story from my childhood, a tale of a cunning plan with about the same chance of success as one of Baldrick's:

Although I'm not Scottish (I swear!), I did complete my first couple of years of grade school in Scotland. It's not as bad as it sounds--it wasn't two whole years. I started near the end of the first year, so it was really just a handful of terms. After that, I left Scotland behind like a bad dream, and I've hardly been back since.

In addition to its other failings, which I'm sure I've complained of at length already, Scotland boasts nippy, sodden winters. The climate's much like that of Vancouver, only smellier. This weather was largely responsible for my making enemies of every teacher at--well, I can't very well say where I went to school, can I? I've already cussed out one of the teachers without remembering to change her name, so if I put the name of the school as well, I'll probably get sued. Anyhow, what does it matter? Primary school's primary school. It could've been anywhere in Scotland, so let's call it, er, King George--and this is the story of how I made every teacher at King George hate me.

So, as I was saying, Scotland's got miserable winters, full of rain and melting snow and nasty dead-fish smells drifting in from the sea (or maybe from Tarbolton). Even when it's not actively raining, there's always the threat of rain--a lead-coloured cloud here, a fresh puddle there, and that tangy impending-precipitation smell everywhere. Walking to school in the morning, you'd get a fine, greasy sort of mist on your face, clammy and unpleasant. All that moisture, of course, was a positive breeding ground for germs. You might as well've plunked the whole school into a giant petri dish. There were always piles of sawdust on the courtyard where people'd boaked it, and drifts of snotty hankies round the bins. Standing in line waiting for the morning bell, you'd consider yourself lucky if nobody sneezed down your neck. And yet--and yet, in the face of all that dampness and all those germs, and with piles of thinly-dusted vomit waiting to ruin your shoes, you were still expected to go outside every day, three times a day! Fifteen minutes in the morning, forty-five after lunch, and another fifteen in the afternoon, rain or shine.

I, of course, saw this for the outrage it was, and quickly came up with the aforementioned cunning plan. It was simple, really, and elegant (well, for a kid barely out of nursery school). See, you had to go outside as long as you behaved yourself. But as long as you were sitting with your face in the corner in the gymnasium, or writing out lines in the library, you weren't freezing your arse off in the yard. Thus, all I had to do was get into trouble every morning, and I'd be kept indoors for the rest of that day. There was one obstacle, of course--I didn't dare get in trouble with my own teacher, Mrs. Grant. I had to wait till I was actually outdoors, then outrage the teacher on playground duty.

The first day, it went brilliantly. I marched straight up to the teacher on duty and forked her the British workers' salute, adding an enthusiastic raspberry for good measure. I hadn't the foggiest what it meant, of course, but I knew it was rude. It was so rude, in fact, that I secured myself lines in the library for the rest of the week, not just that day.

I could've kept it going forever, I think, if it hadn't been for my complete lack of imagination. The following Monday, freed from my library prison, I favoured the same teacher with the same treatment. Unfortunately, she didn't send me inside this time--she spanked me soundly and gave me the shove-off!

"Should I go inside now?", I asked, ever hopeful.

"No," said Dame Slap. "And if I ever see you doing that again, I'm telling your mother."

I never did it again, and she told my mother anyway, on Parent-Teacher night. That might well've been my first experience with betrayal, in fact!

Later on, I hatched a better plan, of course--I befriended the library lady, and secured permission to inhabit the library on a more or less constant basis during inclement weather.

I had another dream about Captain Hook last night. He was drinking rum and singing the following:

I live alone with a giant rat!
I live alone with a giant rat!
Nobody else wants to live in my flat--
because of the giant rat!

Speaking of giant rats, that fiendish critter once again had designs on my dinner this evening. There I was in the kitchen, building my sarnies just the way I like 'em (bit of bread, mustard, lettuce, cheese, ham, pepper, bread), when I saw a protuberant nose snuffling its way out of Stella's nest.

"Put that nose away," I growled, injecting a certain sternness into my tone. "You can't have any of my sandwiches. They have mustard on them, and mustard is bad for rats."

For once, the nose was retracted. Score one for the bad rat; sucks to the giant rat.