The mice have moved in. I can't blame them. Winter is here. (And how. After a record-breakingly mild May, June is cold and damp.) They've obviously had enough of the great outdoors and have shifted back to the ducted heating and messy kitchen. They're grey blurs, little animated dust bunnies. But dust bunnies don't leave apple pips of poo in the cupboard under the sink ...
I haven't had much success with trapping mice. They can take the bait without releasing the spring. But I once managed to kill two of them within a week and in the same silly way.
The first was at work. A mouse had made its home behind one of my book cases. I was worried about my books. You know what mice are like—they're no respecters of the written word. So I asked the lab manager if he'd get a trap. No, he said, he favoured poison. If I wanted a trap I could buy it myself.
FF to next morning.
I'd been working at the computer for a couple of hours and decided I needed a cup of tea. I stood up and felt something soft under my foot. I stepped back, a bit confused. And the mouse lay, rather still, on the carpet.
Snail 1, Mouse 0.
FF to the morning after.
I was having breakfast in my kitchen. I got up from the table to put the crockery in the sink and I felt something soft under my foot ...
Snail 2, Mouse 0.
I don't go around with bare feet anymore.
