Finding a way to get Mickey to move out

MY HOME has turned into Disneyland!

No, not because it’s a mess and looks like Frontierland, nor because of the excuses for being out too late making it Fantasyland. Maybe when “someone” comes home it’s Adventureland and certainly not with paying my rates, being always Tomorrowland.

My home is Disneyland because Mickey, Minnie and the kids have moved in. In fact, I think they’ve brought all their mates too! More mouseses than Microsoft. It’s true, I’ll own up, we have a mousey problem!

I thought I’d be fine because I have my toothbrush with teeth, my King Bing, the Tenterfield terrier, who may end up back in Tenterfield if he doesn’t start earning his kibble by actually catching a mouse.

Now, the word has always been that cats catch mice. Not quite so, according to a most learned professor of IT. That’s IT – Interesting Townsville.

None other than Professor Pascoe, of Pascoe, Pascoe, Pascoe and Pascoe. Prof Pascoe has been here for quite a while. In fact, he sold John Melton Black his first home for 15 pound 10 and sixpence, and I’m sure he still has the sixpence.

Now, this most educated retired gentleman informed me at a Southside Summit that the early council rat catcher of our great city had two Tenterfield terriers that would sit in the basket of his pushbike, and be the mouse eradicators of any home in question. That’s all very mice, er, nice, but not my TT!

So suffmice to say, I mean suffice to say, I still have the precise mice. I even had a noise complaint from Charters Towers concerning hysterical screaming emanating from my home.

Someone who will remain nameless was found standing on my kitchen bench screaming because of a mouse, one tiny furry mousey ... OK, maybe a few tiny furry mouseys.

Talk about loud, 45 RSL home residents ran to the air raid shelter. I must thank my friends for exquisite suggestions, including butterscotch schnapps left in a saucer overnight, and in the morning the mice are quite inebriated and you pick them up and relocate them to the national park at Pallarenda.

My girl reckons it’ll certainly work on me if she needs to.

I don’t like traps – a certain doggie would certainly get his nose caught, and I really don’t like squishing them mouseys.

But if I did, cheese is not the go – it’s pumpkin seeds or peanut butter.

There is another way, so I’m told, and I’m trying it tonight, though it does seem strange, like this column.

You lean a broom on a bucket, hang a bottle off the broom and put peanut butter on the bottle. The mice climb up to get the peanut butter, they slide off the bottle into the bucket!

This of course only happens if Elvis is driving the 206 Sunbus into the city. But I’ve been assured it works.

The way things are here, I’ll do anything. Though after mentioning the kitchen screaming episode, I may be out of the house before the mice.

Happy days.