Interference.

On Mondays and Thursdays, a grey haired middle-aged divorcee from a nearby Scottish village comes to relieve me of the arduous task of looking after Lady Pumpernickel. At 9.30am precisely, Betty (not her real name) comes striding in, spaniel at her heels and proceeds to order me about until I am able to leg it out the backdoor. The very epitome of rural Britannia, Betty is very odd. Take for example the following conversation:

Me: I’m having a really tough time with Lady Pumpernickel, she just refuses to stand half way through the showering process. It’s really rather dangerous. You’ve known her a long time, any suggestions?

Betty: Well, yes it is tricky, I would suggest…INTERFERENCE! INTERFERENCE!

Me: [Looking somewhat confused at this outburst. Betty rushes to the window] Eh?

Betty: My balls, my balls! The birds have got my fat balls. I thought the mice where going to get them.

Me: [Now very discombobulated] I beg your pardon; the birds have got your balls?

Betty: Oh, yes see. [Gesturing to sparrows clustered around bird feeder out the window]. I’ve put out fat balls for the birds, I had 4 packs in the attic and then I thought the mice had got in so I’d best use them up.

Me: Right?

Betty: Yes, so Lady Pumpernickel, well I just use the dog on her.

So there we have it the next time Pumpernickel tries her tricks I’ll just shout, “INTERFERENCE, INTERFERENCE!” and set the dog on her. Simple.