It’s me or the mouse: one of us has to die

It’s late at night when I wake to the sound of rustling near my bedroom door. Another rustle, an almost imperceptible squeak and then I see a little brown body and vermicular tail disappear into a corner. I barely close my eyes for the rest of the night, and when I do, I have horrible sweaty vermin nightmares. The next morning I arrive at work, red-eyed and tell my colleagues. ‘‘They piss constantly you know,’’ says one helpfully. ‘‘There’s never just one,’’ says another, ‘‘they are always in families of 30 or so.” My mother offers to put our dog on the plane to save me. Some mice advice: Do not Google how to get rid of them because the answer is mice will win. You will also discover disturbing facts such as a mouse can crawl up walls, they have malleable bones so they can squeeze under doors and despite having a brain the size of a sesame seed they can and will outsmart you. Their hobbies include ruining human lives, something they love more than cheese and peanut butter combined.

Days pass with no sightings and I am lulled into a false sense of security. I walk around the house barefoot and remove the knife from under my pillow. Then one night I wake to the noise of scratching UNDERNEATH MY BED. I leap to my feet and stand poised for battle. The mouse shoots out and scuttles to my wardrobe. I pick up shoes and belt the doors until it flees out the door, which I slam behind it. I never thought I was scared of mice until this one moved in and now I think I’d prefer to share a flat with Charles Manson. Over the coming days, I become increasingly paranoid and prone to very un-vegetarian and violent thoughts. As my bloodlust grows, I imagine myself dressed in a white forensic suit going full-on Patrick Bateman with a chainsaw around the flat. One thing is for sure, one of us has to die.