Now this is the scary bit. I’ve just watched a bit of Loose Women – an annoying programme for Ladies featuring a selection of twittering Lady presenters with nothing better to do – hugely outclassed and overshadowed by the erudite Janet Street-Porter. Anyway, on this particular bit-of-a-programme the question was: Do you believe in an afterlife? Janet Street-Porter, surprisingly, did, and explained why. That blonde woman who writes ghost-written romances and used to be married to Peter André appeared not to believe because… I mean, if you die and go to heaven, where can you go? Where is it? I mean, it’s not up there, is it? ‘Cos up there’s the sky.’
Anyway, they showed this film of a boy’s Wake in the Philippines … well, lets see if I can find it…
[video since removed from YouTube by user]
Well, I had just been watching that and you just wonder – why wasn’t anyone else giving her a hug at this point? Are they all just sitting around filming her and watching her cry? And whether or not the balloon is her dead little boy come back to give her one last cuddle you have to hope, don’t you?
So I suppose I was already in a frame of mind to be spooked, because I looked down and there was Rufus the Younger looking up at me with a dead mouse in his mouth. Not a stuffed mouse – a real mouse. But dead. Which shouldn’t be. Because my cats are indoor cats. They have to be, because the neighbours are prone – or at any rate rumoured, which is enough – to murdering inconvenient cats and depositing them in wheelie bins for the bin-men to take away. I’ve been here around five years and no cat has ever caught a mouse inside my house. There appear to be no mouse holes, and if there is one that has escaped my attention in five or more years, why didn’t I notice all thirteen cats glued to it? No red-blooded cat is going to ignore a hole in the skirting board, not for a second.
I ran through all the possibilities.
Eight of the thirteen had had to be taken to the vets last week to get their injections (for going into a cattery on moving day). Could a mouse somehow have snuck into one of the pet-carriers, journeyed home with the cat (the equivalent of being sealed into the labyrinth with the Minotaur), jumped out once indoors and hidden all this time undetected by thirteen cats?
And yesterday… yesterday I had to go out in the garage. My landline is playing up and I was on my mobile to some boy in a call centre in Scotland. He was insisting on doing tests, over the phone. He told me to find my old handset and an old set of splitters. No hurry, he had all day, he said. Mind how you go there, dearie, don’t fall over anything… I was getting increasingly frantic and irritable. I had found the old handset (not in the garage after all) but no splitters. I had made several trips out into the garage, in the gloaming (as they say in Scotland). There is no light in the garage so I was bumping around among cardboard boxes (neatly stacked to impress male house-viewers) trying to find by touch a set of splitters. Then I remembered putting them out for the ‘small electricals’ collection last week.
So, a lot of stress, no splitters, no further testing possible, landline still up the spout, calls diverted to my mobile indefinitely, £10 on Amazon to order a new, unnecessary set… not a good day yesterday. But could I have brought a mouse in in my frantic searching of the garage in the semi-darkness? Could it somehow have hitched a ride in my pocket? Poor mousie. What a mistake!
I never kill anything, and I’m not afraid of mice. If I’d found one attached to the leg of my jeans or poking out of my pocket I’d have saved it. I’d have fought off flesh-hungry cats till Kingdom Come. But…
how did that mouse get into my house? Suggestions on a postcard, please.
Anna Maria’s film – so very bad it’s almost very good, if you know what I mean. Should point out – as she does, that though Anna’s video features her stuffed moose, Zeus (naturally) moose in ‘Scottish’ actually means mouse. The song Hoots Mon, There’s a Moose Loose Aboot this Hoose is by Lord Rockingham’s XI (1958).