Whenever I find a bat in the house, I open a window and get out of the way. That usually does the job.

The church my family attended back in the '60s had a huge pipe organ that housed a colony of bats. The sexton, a large man name of Kenward, caught them by means of a tennis racquet and a dustpan, with which he had developed a surprising dexterity.

They made their most dramatic appearances after the Sunday morning anthem, blown out of the long pipes by the organist's choice of an infrequently used sound effect. I remember one drifting groggily out of the decani-side pipe loft, behind and over the Arch-Deacon's head as he reached the high point of his sermon. The ever-vigilant Kenward nabbed it in the west side aisle with barely a flutter of his cassock, much to the approval of the boys in the choir.