House of Mouse

I was never very good at being that hostess with the most-est. All the excitement up front – the invitation, stocking up the fridge, fresh flowers by the bedside and the sweet-smelling bread in the oven. But then, as soon as the guest has unpacked, I start glancing at the clock, waiting for this long-awaited friend to depart.  You see, home is my sanctuary; a place where I totally switch off, shuffle around in slippers and wear BAD tracksuits.

But this particular guest was never invited. He simply dug his way into our lives and now seems to act like he’s ruling our roost. OUR casa is HIS casa, or so it seems.

House of Mouse life of yablon

Of course I immediately called in the 4th emergency service to get this furry (non)friend evicted. Traps were set and poison laid down. But no, he still reins on; over us mere lodgers in his castle.

Now known by our other 5* hotel guests as ‘The Other Him’, the pest is dead (if only) keen on midnight feasting, tireless scurrying and general frolicking.  In short, TOH is living it up chez nous. And I’m now not seeing the funny side of this intruder. So another appointment has been booked and this time it’s HIM or ME.

I know, I know. Those who live surrounded by green fields have many such infiltrators, some even with longer tails. I know that he’s a great deal smaller than me. I know he’s potentially harmless (if you don’t count the countless health risks carried by these pests) but I absolutely refuse to cohabit one more day with an overly curious, entirely intrusive, trap-dodging RODENT.

This column first appeared in The Lady where I am their Mum About Town.

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