Oh my Giddy Aunt

The call came early in the evening, during my exile at my parent's house. My sister is convinced I'm the biggest wuss ever as I abandoned flat and stayed somewhere I'm 90 percent certain won't have mouse urine spread over any kitchen utensils. My flatmate, the indomitable Mr T, had been left to his own devices. The conversation went something like this:

Mr T: We've caught it.

Me: Excellent news.

Mr T: Not really. It's foul. It's just dangling there, and I've got to make my tea.
[Pause]
Are you coming home soon?

I explained that, unfortunately, I was unavoidably detained while having my own tea prepared for me, and he'd have to be the man on this one. And to his credit he was indeed the Man, and had disposed of the corpse by my return. I entered the flat with a song in my heart (Hey Mickey, You're So Fine, to be exact), to find the T-man hunched over in the shower, whimpering about how the blood would not wash from his hands.

My good humour was short lived. Before bed, I'd set the traps again just incase. And we caught another, this time with me on disposal duties. ("Oh God, I think that's a bit of guts- no, wait, it's the strawberry syrup we used when the chocolate mousse ran out".)

That's right. We have Mouse Plural.

And that's it for a bit; I am off to Cornwall for a week, leaving my dear friend on rodent watch.

M signing out.