I'm trying to convince myself it's a possum.
I arrived from work yesterday evening with a rotten headache. It had appeared on my drive in, developed on my drive back home to fetch my reading glasses, and blossomed in the afternoon's meeting with the project students. (Nothing to do with them. The meeting was good fun.) By the time I got home, my head was fastened in a G-clamp that not even a bucketload of analgesics could loosen. The bucketload of analgesics did help me sleep, though, so I spent the evening snoozing in front of the tv.
I woke hours later to the sound of scratching on — or possibly in — the kitchen roof. If the scratcher is in the roof space, it's a rat making a nest out of insulation. But if it's on the roof, it could be either a rat or a possum. I hope it's a possum.
Oh, who am I kidding? Possums don't scratch. They run up and down, tap dance and play tympani but they don't scratch.
Bugger. At least the rats aren't in the walls.