Kevin Page is now able to add ‘rat trapper’ to his CV

Kevin Page spent some cutting up blocks of cheese, which were then smeared with peanut butter to catch rats.

Kevin Page is a teller of tall tales with a firm belief that laughter helps avoid frown lines. Page has been a journalist for many years and has been writing a column since 2017.

OPINION

So, completely out of the blue, I picked up a little job on my travels.

I’m now able to add “rat trapper” to my CV, though I might have to fudge the length of service bit.

That’s because it was over before it really got started.

In fact, while you are sitting there reading this – trying not to get toast crumbs or Vegemite on your keyboard/newspaper/cellphone - my employment has already come to an end.

It has to be said, however, the last five days has been an interesting experience to say the least.

But let me go right back to the start.

As you know Mrs P and I are travelling the world, or rather the best part of it, in our caravan. While we meander around, I’m working on my little project which is writing the life story of anybody who wants and putting it into a book for Christmas or special occasions - for a very reasonable price I might add.

Anyway.

It’s slow going getting a fledgling business off the ground and while I’ve got a number of confirmed books to put together over the next few months, the cashflow is, well, not exactly flowing just yet.

This has caused Mrs P to go into a spin about our budget.

Long, long story short – and I’m sure you’ve all been there at some stage – she says we haven’t got enough money, and I should go out and see if I can get a bit of work till the writing income starts flowing.

I say we have got enough money but obviously I’ll keep my options open.

She says I need to go out and be a bit more proactive in the income hunt.

So, in a bit of a huff it has to be admitted, I took myself off to BP Wild Bean to spend some of the cashflow we don’t have, on a coffee.

And that’s where I was, looking out the window mulling over my options, when a rather battered looking ute pulled into the forecourt.

From it emerged an equally battered looking driver who immediately stirred my interest.

At this point I’ll make a small diversion from the story so bear with me.

Since we’ve been on the road I’ve been working on another little project. I call it “Three People”. At the end of our travels, I’ll see whether it might make a book.

Essentially what I do is try and chat with three different people each week. More if the situation flows that way. Then I write a paragraph about the encounter.

The chat is about anything that comes up. The weather, dogs, cucumber, football ... whatever. No names or intrusive questioning. Just chat.

I figure it’s a great way to meet some new and interesting people rather than doing the online thing, which I hate, to stay in touch with society.

It’s amazing what people come up with. So far I’ve logged 40 or so hugely interesting encounters and paragraphs.

And so, returning to the main story back at BP Wild Bean last week, I deemed this particular driver worthy of a friendly greeting.

Ten minutes later it emerges he’s got a bit of land near to where I’m parked up. He’s sprucing it up but it’s hard yakka and he’s been trying to get on top of a rat problem.

He’s managed to get on top of the pesky critters but now he has to go away for a few days and he’s worried any hard won momentum in his trapping programme will be lost in his absence.

Apparently, he could do with some help.

Enter Yours Truly.

Next morning I’m on site early helping him cut up blocks of cheese which we then smear with peanut butter. The crunchy kind. Apparently the rats prefer that to the smooth kind which also tends to run off the cheese in the rain. Who knew?

After that we’re off round the property - with two excitable dogs who will apparently bark to let me know when we’ve caught a rat - where we place the bait stations. Easy.

So, all I have to do next day and each following day while my new mate is busy elsewhere is wander the well-worn route and check on the traps.

Now for much of the last 40 odd years I’ve been an office-bound worker. I have had my moments in different jobs – both in terms of physical and mental input – but these days the outside stuff is a little harder than it was 10 years ago.

It didn’t help that my dodgy hip decided this particular week it really wanted to play up.

The site of my new role was also undulating, to say the least, with one or two traps requiring four points of contact with the ground as I tried to scramble up what I classed as basically a vertical cliff face.

Obviously, my employer didn’t see it as possessing any particular degree of difficulty when he showed me the ropes, striding uphill at a confident speed while I stayed behind to, er, mind the dogs.

Anyway, the upshot of all that was what should have taken me a couple of hours per day actually took me double that. Which meant I was away from My Beloved for a little more each day than I intended.

“No worries,” she had said kindly, making it clear she supported and admired my efforts to add a bit of ballast to our bank account.

In my defence, I would like to point out half the time I was dealing with disobedient dogs who had a mind of their own and weren’t the least bit impressed with the city boy trying to order them around each day.

Even my attempts to look the part – Red Band gumboots and a Hunting and Fishing polar fleece T-shirt with an old pair of footy shorts - didn’t cut the mustard.

In fact, on the third day the little buggers somehow managed to get the cheese and peanut butter baits out of the backpack I was carrying them in and I had to go all the way back to base and make some more.

The dogs weren’t impressed with my commands either.

The words “Come in!” can be delivered in a multitude of tones and decibel levels but none seemed to work with these two boisterous pooches who simply stared straight at me every time I uttered the words and then ran off together to do their own thing.

I’m sure I heard them laughing as they galloped away. I certainly never heard one bark to let me know I’d been successful. Perhaps it was a case of “When the cat’s away, the mice (or dogs) will play”.

Anyway.

Eventually the very, very tiring week came to an end, and I was thrilled to see the battered old ute come up the driveway as my employer returned.

I dutifully went through my success rate as requested and through gritted teeth explained the dogs had been a delight to work with.

My service at an end, he thanked me for my efforts and handed over the agreed remuneration.

And as I drove home with it, I wondered how on earth I was going to explain to Mrs P my reward for such a tiring time was an interesting chat with a likeable character and a large coffee from BP Wild Bean.