Mommy, this house has hamsters!

In which Harry Cat makes a brief but vital appearance on an errand of gallantry and our house repels boarders.

I really don't think I can take much more of this. The carpet treaders are giving me a bad time. I'm sure you must know about carpet treaders. You know, you put your house on the market to sell, the agent hangs out his board and then you sit back waiting for someone to come along and buy it. Carpet treaders are dedicated house viewers. Not house buyers. House viewers. They come to tread your carpets, finger your furnishings, drink your coffee and generally waste your time.

Of course I know it's part of the game. You have to expect it. It's no use presenting folks with a golden opportunity to see inside someone else's house, poke in the cupboards and ask embarrassing questions about the plumbing if you're going to complain when they appear on the doorstep. Most of them are perfectly nice but, oh my goodness, some of them can be a pain.

This house is a special house, though, with a character and a mind of its own. I tell you, this house has an awareness of people that's sometimes only a little short of uncanny. Most people it likes. Some it doesn't, and it has a neat trick or two stored in its stones to see off unwanted visitors.

The first victim was Mrs Wrighton-Kitchen. A larger than life, much-flowered lady from Kent, accompanied by a grey wisp of a husband who seemed eternally harassed, almost in a constant state of fear. They were, so she told me, "looking for a little place in the country." I showed her and the grey wisp round the house, to be met at every turn with an unfavourable comparison with "our house in Kent". My politeness stayed steadfast through it all. The carpets - "not quite what we're used to". The storage - "well, I suppose you can only do so much". And, finally, sitting at the farmhouse table in the kitchen sipping my very best coffee and making disparaging remarks about the old-pine hand-crafted kitchen units - "Of course, we have just installed a new kitchen - Wrighton Kitchen Units."

I wondered what Mrs Wrighton-Kitchen was getting out of this. Reinforcement? Or just pleasure from the opportunity to be nasty to a complete stranger. What should I do? I knew she'd not buy the house, I had things to do, and I wanted her to go. But she wouldn't. She seemed to be settled in for the afternoon.

Just then I realized the my little house was holding its breath. Impossible to explain - you'd have to experience it. Somewhere deep in the heart of the old cottage a plot was being hatched. The house did not like Mrs Wrighton-Kitchen and it seemed to know that it had to come up with a humdinger of a trick if it was to get rid of this loud-voiced intruder. So it was with a strange, morbid fascination that I watched a large black beetle emerge from the warm spot behind the range and make its way, silently and determinedly, across the tiles towards Mrs Wrighton-Kitchen. More particularly, towards Mrs Wrighton-Kitchen's toes, red painted toenails and all, protruding from ugly open sandals.

You know what it's like for one helpless moment, when you know a plate is going to drop to the floor and shatter and you are frozen, unable to do anything to avert the disaster? Well, that's just how I felt as the beetle plodded along. With a terrifying shriek, Mrs Wrighton-Kitchen leapt to her feet. "I've been bitten! I've been bitten!" The grey wisp flapped around gasping. I did my best to suppress my glee and offered first aid and sympathy.

And, off they went. I don't think they were really suited to life in the country. It's surprising how often life in the country will up and bite you on the toes just to put you in your proper place.

Silence settled as I put the china and silverware in the washer. The house creaked contentedly, breathing soft and slow once more, and from the inaccessible void behind the range, deep in the cobwebby darkness it's best not to think about, I could hear the beetle's relatives: "Scritty. Scratty."

I smiled. "Well done, little friends. Well done, little house."

The next pair were about as unsuited to a little place in the country as it's possible to imagine. From Switzerland and untypically huge and boisterous. The woman towered over me, and looked adoringly up at her even taller husband. There was no way they'd fit into my tiny house. But they loved it. They loved the garden. They loved the house. As they bounded enthusiastically from room to room, ducking around the beams, I wondered if they'd not love it to pieces.

I got them calmed, finally, and sat them down for coffee, to talk details. I knew it was a really hopeless prospect but I truly liked this couple. It's hard not to like people who see all the virtue of your home and spot all the things you've done to realize it. What to do? Tell them I didn't think they were suited? Warn them against buying a house with the heart and forgetting the head?

In true form the house came to my rescue. It was merciless to people who forgot their heads. The husband decided to take one more look at the living room, bounded through, and forgot to duck. Crack! My house had claimed it's umpteenth skull. During the application of sticking plaster and cleansing alcohol the wife lost her perfect English and said: "I sink ze ceilinks are too small for my huspandt." And, off they went, presumably to continue the search for a 400-year-old cottage built for giants.

I looked at the beam. It didn't look at me. Oh, well, another prospect gone.

The next set I loved on sight. A twig-thin American lady and small child. The child was enchanted with the house, and the house, I could feel, liked her. She wandered from room to room, exclaiming with delight at each new wonder. Of course, the room she liked best was the tiny attic bedroom with its flowered paper and covers. I confess, I liked this room, too. There was a faery story quality about it.

Leaving the small child playing, the lady and I sat down to chat. I couldn't get over the thinness of her. And she was dressed in a flowing cover all type dress that would have covered two fat ladies. As she moved about, the fabric drifted along after her in a scented gossamer cloud. We spoke of California, of music, and of the death of John Lennon. I was growing to like her more and more as she reminded me of happy days out on the Coast, of flowers and songs and whacky-baccy nights.

She was nervous about living in the country, though. It didn't really seem, well, clean enough for her. She worried about "all the little creatures, carrying disease." At that point I felt the house stiffen suddenly, coming awake from a shared day-dream, as if it spied strangers.

A feeling of doom settled on me. I knew something dreadful was about to happen.

Sure enough. Scream. Loud alarm. Little child comes running down stairs. "Mommy, Mommy, this house has hamsters!"

I knew instantly what had happened. The pesky house had chosen just that blissfully appropriate moment to disgorge a mouse.

I stuck my head out the kitchen door. "HARRY!" Little Harry Cat dropped what ever it was he was doing and came hurtling along. "We've got a mouse in the house, Harry". And I showed him the foot of the stair. He caught a whiff of the intruder and disappeared. "Don't worry," I tried to calm my distraught American Lady, "they really are harmless, and Harry will soon dispose of it for us."

It was only a few moments later that Harry, splendid little chap that he is, appeared around the corner, large mouse dangling, and trotted off into the garden. This was a parlour trick we'd played out many a time, to the delight of more country-minded visitors.

But, sadly, my charming American Lady was not comforted. Or delighted. And off she went. "Oh, really," I turned on the house. "There was no need for that!" The house said nothing. Well, they don't, do they. Or, do they?

For days afterward, as I saw the steady stream of carpet treaders in and around and out of the house, and waved them away down the lane, that sweet little voice came back to make me smile. "Mommy, Mommy, this house has hamsters!"

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