LIFE LESSONS

Caught in a trap, can’t walk out

Afew weeks ago I wrote about my mouse problem. The problem being an over-active night owl (maybe I should get an owl?) of a mouse, high on muesli, who routinely terrorised me for three weeks. It did this primarily by waiting ‘til I nodded off every night then scuttling out from its God-forsaken crevice and doing a jig under my bed. I would wake, sweating profusely and scared sh*tless, unable to go back to sleep for fear I’d open my eyes and it would be sitting on my pillow staring at me with a cigarette between its teeth (yes they have teeth… you should see what this maniac did to a bag of granola in my kitchen). After weeks of watching the foul four-legged menace waltz past my humane traps and the plug-in that is supposed to emit a noise that they hate (clearly fake news spread by mice), I was overcome by bloodlust and laid inhumane sticky traps. The next night I woke to a tiny, desperate squeal. Finally, my nemesis, trapped and helpless. I climbed out of bed, put on my slippers — a pair of steel-toe Doc Martens I’ve taken to wearing around the house for a situation just like this — and ended his reign of terror. Feeling bad as I scooped his tiny furry body into a bag, I thought ‘I’m sorry it had to end like this, you were a noble adversary’, then placed him in the bin. What I should have done is mounted his head on a spike outside as a warning to the rest of his family. Because those bastards came for revenge. The next week I killed his baby. His cousin retaliated by running over my foot in the kitchen the next day — a cunning move which reduced me to a paranoid mess. For days, I couldn’t walk into my own kitchen unless armed with a mop. But then he got over-confident and met a sticky end too. So if any mice are reading this, take my advice and stay the hell out of flat B.