Monday 22 August 2011


A mouse, a mouse in the house, a mouse in MY house. No, this isn’t the beginning of a Dr. Seuss book. This is unfortunately the state of affairs in my flat at the moment and I’m not happy about it. Even the King knows something is amiss, as I will no longer let him spend as much time in the kitchen playing on the floor. Mr. Ratatouille [I figure if I give him a benign name it will make me feel better] was last spotted there; You see, it’s war and for the moment he has claimed that territory.

It’s amazing that something so small can conjure up such emotion and fear in a grown adult. I’m woman enough to admit that the sight of a mouse can send me screaming through the house like a lunatic. In fact, even my partner hollered as if he saw a ghost and then picked up a mop handle and started charging around the kitchen like Gandalf. [You were totally masculine, honey, don't worry].

I’m not sure what it is about mice that do this to people. Fine, in simple terms, they’re vermin, so there is the disease and germ factor that freaks me out to no end. [And of course there is my dignity at stake, as I pride myself on having a ridiculously clean house and hence, why the hell is a mouse interested in my kitchen?! I of course blame the neighbors downstairs]. There is also the fact that these little creatures can bend and contort themselves into the most miniscule of positions enabling them to squeeze their way through just about anything. Which means, no matter what you do, that little furry sucker is not going to be contained.

So you find yourself faced with the question of what to do to get rid of it. As I don’t particularly want the King to think I’m a murderer – then again, I am also NOT in the mood to have the King befriend a new pet – the whole guillotine trap thing makes my stomach turn. I also don’t like the notion of beckoning the entire mouse population into my flat with peanut butter and cheese just so they can all meet their maker. Go hang out in the pub thank you very much, not in my living room.

For now, the landlord has installed some high frequency device that apparently bothers them so much they stay away - if only that would take care of my neighbor.
There better be a money back guarantee on this little piece of wizardry if I see anything gray and covered in hair moving across the tile floor. So presently, I wait and pray this little sucker has the sense to stay in the kitchen and not get any funny ideas about exploring the rest of the house.

If only life were like a Pixar film; I could at least put him to work and have him whip up some French culinary masterpieces for the King’s meals for the next month.

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