Le squeak, c’est chic

09Mar09

Or it is round our way. The body count now stands at 12 and my flatmate has developed a tic that bodes ill for anyone with big ears and a long tail hoping to take the air within 50 feet of him. There are about eight traps deployed, featuring a cornucopia of cheese, chocolate, peanut butter and bacon bits.

But we think we might have the Ultimate Weapon in the form of a plug-in, erm, screamer (not its real name). Apparently it emits a very high-frequency noise that is beyond the range of our hearing but is vexatious to vermin. I hope so. Flatmate assured me of its efficacy, recounting an enchanting memory of using one in an old house some years ago. He lay in bed while rats trapped in a wall cavity about a foot from his pillow went nuts because the screamer makes them run away, but is so horrible that they get disorientated. Result: frenzy as they tried to scrabble through the plasterwork. Have to say, that gave me pause. Oh God, it’s like that bit in The Ipcress File when they torture Michael Caine by showing him not-very-disturbing images to a loud soundtrack.

Also, hearing’s a funny thing. I might not be able to hear the banshee screech consciously, but what if it’s messing with my brain waves? Maybe it’ll change my personality; could it trigger responses? Like in The Manchurian Candidate or Jacob’s Ladder, or whatever it was. Or jam signals? Perhaps I’ll start shouting at dustbins or speaking Latin or ovulating ceaselessly. But then, if it means no more teeth marks in the butter, I’ll live with it.

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