We aren't neurotic, but it has been a tough couple of months. The rats came, the pest-control man said cheerfully, because we'd invited them. Our smug, good-citizen composting bins were nothing less than a Hilton hotel - hot fermenting grass cuttings for sleep and sex, vegetable scraps for dinner - all they lacked was the neon sign. From the bins, it was a quick scuttle into the foundations of our house.