The leaves are nearly all off the trees; now on the ground, in the garden and the yard, swirling round the bins, starting to rot.
I have brushed up a couple of times but, like Sisyphus and his blasted boulder, is there any point until the bloody trees are done?
I love the autumn in Tyrone. Not that it is nicer here than anywhere else, but there is an abundance of trees in our village, and their stoic spill helps ease me into winter.
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I love the naked branches and bare bark – the trees aren’t shy. They strip for all to see: as assured as a Tom Ford catwalk model, they know they are gorgeous and unattainable.
My favourite by far is the cherry blossom.
Of course, they are revered for their April bándearg flowers, scattering wedding vibes all around the village, but in autumn they get a second go at showing off, tipping leaves the colour of russet as swiftly as the bloom.
All this, you might ask, has what to do with mice?
Well, I believe the mice use leaves as camouflage to sneak into the house. How else can you explain them appearing at exactly the same time every year?
You will never actually see this happen, but I came back to the house the other day to see Fionnuala and the children out the back, dancing through a big pile of leaves, with the back door wide open.
“Jesus, keep the door closed!” I had my hands on my hips.
“Oh, don’t be such a cliché, Fabien. The house will heat up in no time.”
“It’s not heat escaping. It’s mice invading.”
Fionnuala laughed this off – claiming I say the same about wasps in summer – but she has an abhorrence of mice that belies her country credentials.
So, the door was shut. But too late.
Eric, the dog, began to sniff around the cupboards the next morning like a bloodhound chasing a crim. Big deep sniff; big stupid face over at me; big deep sniff again.
He knew and I knew what he was sniffing, but I couldn’t bear the thought of it and put him out with a roar.
“What has Eric done?” Fionnuala was behind me.
“Nothing. He’s just getting on my wick.”
I knew if I said about the mouse she would want to move out, so I decided to hunt secretly.
When she left, I checked round the skirting and under cupboards, and in the utility room I saw the dreaded black droppings. A trap would have to be discreetly hidden.
This I did, slathered in crunchy peanut butter, and in the middle of the night – snap!
I crept out of bed – she muttered in her sleep – and downstairs the dog sat knowingly at the cupboard door. I know, I said. Gotcha.
The rodent’s eyes were closed and its two paws were perfectly prayer-like; its dreadful little incisors dug into its lips. I had to steady my beating heart as I put it in a dog-poo bag and out into the black bin. Trap and all.
I did hope that would be that but knew the adage – where there’s one there’s two – so I set the other trap I had and went to bed.
Ten minutes later – snap again.
It was ditto downstairs and I swore it was the same mouse. Twins maybe? And I binned it again and thought, surely there can’t be three?
But the third snap never came and when I woke up the next day to peek in fearfully, sure enough the wooden contraption was empty.
“Mice don’t come in the door, Fabien. Maybe in Belfast but not down here.”
I held my tongue and asked how would they get in, did she think?
“Through the windows. So don’t leave them open – ever.”