An attic search

Creaking joists. Dusty cobwebs sweep my face. Trying to be silent whilst hunched and balanced. Progress is slow as I sweep my torch carefully.

Amongst the dust clogging my nostrils comes the hint of a different odour: organic, with a tang of urine. The ‘nose’ of bats. I cast around like a bloodhound, searching for the source.

Mouse droppings scattered about, like tiny bricks. Searching for the crumbling ones. Dodging the protruding nails.

The hint of a scratch? Maybe a scuffle? Edge closer, dimming the torch. Peer round a rafter. Scritch-scratch. There! A dozen faces stare back, ears erecting. Expressions like offended spinsters.

I slowly reverse. Stiff, dusty and delighted.

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