I

I was under the table removing mould spores from the kitchen floor when the doorbell rang. No one ever rang my doorbell. I had a special tune installed and everything and no one had pressed the button in months. I disinfected my hands a few times, changed my jumper in case there were mould fumes left on it, and went to see who was there.

I peeped my head around the corner of the door. There were two men standing on my front step.

"Yes?" I said, my voice muffled by the doorframe.

"Is your name Bud?" asked the shorter one.

I had a sudden fear that they were debt collectors. I didn't owe any debts (I have a wall chart that reminded me when things were due) but I'd heard of this happening before – collectors breaking kneecaps before realising they got the wrong house, the wrong Bud. They looked like thugs – two men travelling around together. They were basically a gang. I didn't know why the government allowed it.

"How can I help?" I said.

"We're here to help you," said the taller one, in a serious voice. "A lot of people in your street have reported having pigeon infestations. We wondered if you had been hearing any noises lately."

I had. There was banging and smashing up in the rafters. It didn't sound like the pigeons though – unless they were staging wrestling matches. I had called a company but they said it would take three weeks before they could send anyone around.

I answered yes; I had been hearing noises.

"Well," said the shorter one, "Do you mind if we pop up there and have a look around?"

I told them I wished I could let them but I had my mother coming around in a few hours – I was cooking her dinner (I was making soufflés) – and I didn't want them banging around in my roof while she was there.

"That's cool," said the shorter one, "I like mothers."

He gave a wink and slipped passed into the hallway. The serious looking one frowned apologetically and walked in as well. I hate trades people – you either can't get them or you can't get rid of them. There's no happy medium.

I had to make sure they didn't break my collection of international parcels as they headed up the stairs.

I let them up the manhole and left them to their business. I read the numberplate on their car and loaded up the Internet to check it on the national road database – just to be safe. I typed in the site and clicked the search button.

II

The timer on my oven gave a sudden ding. I looked up from the computer screen. It would be about thirty seconds before my choc chip muffins began to sweat.

I ran down the corridor, bounding over the cleaning equipment I had been using for the mould spores and ripped open the oven door. I whipped out my hand and grabbed the oven mitt, extracting the muffins in the nick of time.

I sat down and began to chop up the parsley for the potato salad. I had to be fast because if you don't chop up parsley while it is cold, you lose a lot of the nutrients and therefore flavour into the chopping board. Mother would surely notice.

There was a bang from up above my head. A single cobweb fell from the ceiling and danced its way onto my parsley. I looked up.

Once I was at the top of the stairs, I called out through the manhole that I would like to speak to them if it was possible. The manhole slid open and the tall, serious one lowered himself from the ceiling. He was dripping with sweat. I asked him to step into the bathroom – I didn't want him dripping onto the carpet.

I said I appreciated what he and his friend were doing but my mother was coming around and I didn't want her to be bothered by the noise. She was a very stressed lady and liked peace and quiet. I didn't want her to think I had visitors all the time, that this was some kind of party house. She might think I was taking drugs or something.

He looked sympathetic and said he wished he could help but unfortunately the pigeon infestation might take a longer to clear than expected. It could take days.

"Days?" I said. I couldn't have strangers in my house for days. I had work in the morning – they couldn't be left in the house alone. What would the neighbours think?

As I was just about to explain this, the shorter one lowered himself from the ceiling. There was a cut on his forehead and blood was pouring onto his shirt. He looked towards the ceiling, panting.

"Big pigeons you've got here."

I quickly got him off the carpet.

I told him that the two of them were not welcome, that I had an important dinner with my mother and that they would be ruining it. The pigeon infestation could wait until later.

The shorter one answered that it couldn't. That now they had started they had to finish it. They had disturbed the pigeons and couldn't afford to have them flying away, nesting in roofs all over the city. I would have to grin and bear it.

I said I didn't have to grin and bear anything but he patted me on the shoulder and went back in the ceiling. I yelled out that I wouldn't be told what to do and even though I was smaller than them, if I heard so much as a noise I would forcibly remove them from my ceiling. There was a scream from the attic. I yelled out to them that I would not be patronised. I then returned to making my soufflés.

The clock in the kitchen said my mother would be there within the hour. Every second that went by meant she was a step closer. I could imagine her hopping in the car and doing up her seatbelt. I would have to hurry.