I sit down of a morning to read all your latest blog posts. When I’ve had some coffee, it’s time to visit KateShrewsday. You’ll know that Kate is a mine of information, she links things wonderfully and has great humour. She makes me think and smile and cry. Not today.
Today, Kate published a post about mice and my skin crawled. Those freaky, furry things? Uuuugh. Shudder.
When the student house I lived in first had a mouse, I wasn’t overly worried. (In my innocence I thought it was a mouse. As if.) It used to come out for a wee run round the living room, but nobody was very upset. We talked about borrowing a cat. We didn’t want to be emptying traps. We were preoccupied. We passed the buck. Noone took responsibility for actually doing anything. Before long, we were over run by the brutes. They scurried along curtains and chewed through the cable for the cooker. I became bothered. Worst of all, I had one in the bed with me. Believe me, I was now well and truely freaked out. (I remembered the tale of Granny squashing a rat in her armpit. She was living in a barn. People were hardier then.)
Herself had great belief in the power of a high pitched plug in gadget that apparently keeps mice away. Unfortunately, one of the few things that Handsome Husband remembers to do about the house is to switch off plugs. Not long ago we set traps and dumped the contents of the huge hot press (airing cupboard). The mice laughed. Rentakill were called into action. The big, fierce, ‘no vermin bother me’ man paled. He left enough poision to clear three normal domestic cases. He’s due back soon, to see if that’s worked. Uuugh. Shudder.
The Auntie has great belief in the repellent powers of St Martin’s magazine. (Yes, an actual paper magazine. No, I don’t know how it’s meant to work.) She has one in every drawer in the house, and no mice. She handed me over the rest of her stock so I can distribute them about Herself’s house (that means I have to gather up my courage and go in) and our house (to be sure).
When the poison has done what it has to do, we have to get a huge skip and some masks and start clearing. Everything in Herself’s garage needs dumped. Even the silver bobbly head Santa Claus that I have loved for ever. Herself and the old man bought it their first Christmas together- their last bit of peace before I arrived. They were young and joyful and full of plans for a long and happy life together. Silver Santa outlasted them both. Now it has fallen into the furry little paws or horrible massive teeth of the mice. Sorry Santa. I was hoping to purloin you for my own, but its too late for that. Uuugh. Shudder.
“And in some mediaeval imagery: for example images of Gertrude of Nivelles, (626-659) an abbess-turned-saint on whose robes mice nibble – the mouse is said to represent the very human soul.” If you think Kate is going to guilt me into not killing hundreds of mice with a line like that, you’d be much mistaken.
There’s only one good mouse…