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It was a Tuesday night like any other. Steve and I lay gently snoring until I woke up to a scratching noise. It was persistent and definitely in our room. This required action. I woke Steve by jabbing him in the shoulder with my index finger. Speaking was a risk as I didn’t want to give up my position. I once read that if a rat bites your neck the best way to get it to remove it’s grip is to light a match, then blow it out and put it to its nose. The reason being that rats don’t like sulphur as so they release their grip! This is possibly the most useless piece of advice I have ever stumbled across. I never carry matches and if my neck is being ravaged by a rat I am certain that I will not have the presence of mind to remember that we keep matches in a tea caddy in the shelf above the washing machine! This advice also has me full convinced that if a rat knows where I am it will immediately attack my neck therefore speaking before we had identified the creature seemed incredibly dangerous. But after poking Steve awake I felt that I needed to say something.

So in the whispered darkness I explain that I’ve heard something rustling. (Rustling is such a great word!). The noise happens, again, and again, and again. Steve and I look up at the same time. Above our heads is the creature that woke us up and is now terrifying the life out of us. A bat. A real life, flying bat, circling our bedroom celling.

Steve screams and runs for the room, turning the light on as he makes his escape. There goes my back up!  The light has the effect sending the bat into a freak attack frenzy. He starts swooping and diving, banging itself into walls then soaring up again. I dive under the covers afraid for my life. If there are two things urban legends have thought me it’s that rats go for the neck while bats get stuck in your hair. Desperately regretting letting my hair grow, I curl myself into a ball and hide under the covers all the while chastising Steve for leaving me in my hour of great need.

With a lot of bravery Steve comes shrieking back into the room, flings open the shutters and opens the window. I don’t see any of this as I’m still struggling to breathe under the covers. But when the shrieking stops I brave a peak. Steve is standing near the window, flashing any passer by’s who happen to be walking by having a staring competition with the half dead bat. He explains that the bat swooped to fly out the window, missed and seems to have knocked himself out.

The bat looked at Steve, I looked at Steve, Steve looked worryingly at the bat. The bat does not make it. The head injury proved fatal.

We barricade the chimney in our bedroom with a pillow. This is not the strongest defence but at 5 in the morning it’s the most we can manage, turn off the light and try desperately to get back to sleep. Not the kind of drama you’d expect, or want, on a Tuesday night!