Faster Pussycat, Kill! Kill!


On Thursday evening I knew summat was up when I was looking under the stairs and smelled that smell. I backed out quickly, yanking the hoover with me, and hoped it (they, as it turns out) would go away. But once you find yourself turning up the volume of the telly in the kitchen to cover their scrabblings, it’s too late. You’ve got mice and they love you.

Now the problem is how to get rid of them without turning into a cartoon character. Actually, you can’t. You’re either the housekeeper in Tom and Jerry who keeps jumping on chairs and shouting ‘Thomiiisss’ every time you see a whisker, or Elmer Fudd with a shotgun and profoundly misplaced confidence in your own cunning.

Still, manners are manners and we’re not having houseguests who crap on everything. Traps were set: snap, snap, snap and six mice – six! – were sent to vermin valhalla. Yesterday was the even more disgusting bit. Throwing out all the food, peering under cupboards, unscrewing skirting boards, vacuuming up mouse droppings and scrubbing everything with bleach and soapy water. Mind you, I’m glad it’s dry food they like to eat: oh, I love the cheery rattle of tiny turds up the hoover hose.

So now everything is left bare and exposed, with traps reset and primed with mouse-nip. Last night my flatmate said he could still hear them, or at least a squeak. I’m hoping that that was a squeak of disappointment or dudgeon (don’t care which, just bugger off) when they found the party was over.

C’mon Mouseketeers, light out for the territories! Go next door! They’re students. They probably have enough cereal and stoner snacks to feed a plague. Otherwise I’ll come round to yours and crap in YOUR cupboard. See how you like that one, Squeaker.


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