Friday, 13 April 2007

Mickey's Revenge...

I’ve been living in my current place for almost three months now and I love it. It’s in an area that I love, the location is great and I feel really at home there. I live with the lovely Tanya, who makes me howl with laughter on a daily basis. It’s perfect… almost. It transpires that we have had a few unwelcome guests – a couple of rodent squatters, if you will…

Upon moving in, Tanya informed me that we were sharing with one other, a chap called Mickey. As in mouse. But not any more, because after trying to humanely give him the heave ho, the little whippersnapper kept giving me the slip. In fairness, I did scream when I came face to face with him as I ran t’other way and he didn’t hang about in scuttling back under the cooker. That was that: I decided to get a trap. A proper one. Mickey would be leaving the house, but wrapped in newspaper and in a black bag that would then be dumped in the wheelie bin. The instructions on the trap told me that it should be baited with chocolate for best results - chocolate! Can you credit it? Mice these days are getting above their station! Cheese and crumbs no longer tickles their taste buds. Oh no. It’s a jar of peanut butter (smooth), tuna steak or a box of Thornton’s finest, thank you VERY much. Anything less and it’ll just keep shitting on the kitchen floor in protest… I fished out a Celebrations chocolate that was left over from Chrimble, shaved off some of the chocolate and set the trap before going to beddy-byes, cackling evilly as I went.

At 6.30am the next morning, I rose from my pit feeling a bit bleary eyed with the sole aim of getting some breakfast. I made my way downstairs, rubbing my mince-pies and muttering grumpily to myself as I entered the kitchen. I flicked the light and in front of me was dead old Micks, wearing nothing but a metal bar around his neck and a surprised expression on his face (think Cher, post surgery). The choccie that tempted him to his Saddam-like demise was about three feet away (the trap must be more powerful than I first thought) and Mickey was on his back with his paws in the air, eyes wide open and staring at me. Momentarily, I considered the karmic payback and was filled with dread about coming back in my next life as a shit eating dung beetle, Mariah Carey or a Milky Way Celebrations chocolate, but then decided to get on with the task in hand – disposing of the body. Wearing one Marigold glove, I attempted to wrap Mickey in the newspaper but as I picked the paper up, the body – rock solid with rigermortis – fell out of the side and almost hit me – liberating a manly yelp (a scream? Who dear? Me dear? Scream dear? No dear! How very dare you!) I pulled myself together, held my breath and finally got rid of the body. Several bottles of disinfectant later, and the house was back to normal, but as a precaution I bought some more traps and set them, just in case any of his verminous little chums had decided to move in too. For weeks we were mouse free and then, earlier this week, I came into the kitchen to find Mickey’s mate, Jerry, stone dead after going for a well planted morsel of Celebrations chocolate. Gagging, I completed the clean up process again and reset the trap… However, this morning, I came downstairs and the trap had gone. Vanished! Disappeared! Evaporated! At first, I thought Tanya may have moved it, but seeing as though she’s petrified of all things squeaky and murderous this didn’t seem likely and a quick shout out confirmed this.

So, where is the trap? And how and why has it moved? I’m confused and partially terrified. I have visions of an evil Stuart Little plotting revenge on the big bad mouse slayer. I feel like the baddy in Home Alone. Stuart and chums have ingeniously removed said mouse trap and are fashioning a human version where I will be tempted to my end using a slice of pizza, a pint of beer and some well placed marbles at the top of the stairs…

Oh, Mickey, I’m so sorry… I should have used Thornton’s after all…

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