Mama, I killed a mouse!

Put a trap against it’s hole, added chocolate, now it’s gone…

Yes, I just buggered with the lyrics of a Queen song (as if you couldn’t tell) to illustrate the story of our home-owning coming-of-age. The killing of rodents.

It all started a couple of weeks ago. Nibbled bread, nibbled bags of pasta. Then the damn thing invaded my living room, running out of the fireplace. I must admit, it was quite cute … but it had to go.

The retaliation was planned. It was humane, a trap, baited with peanut butter. We set, and waited.

And then, the other morning it was there – in the food cupboard. We managed to put it in a box, then I took it to Sutton and released it in the park, with some cheese. Apparently mice don’t like cheese, but that’s another story.

We relaxed and thought we were free, but then the scratching began. Under the floorboards. Interrupting our television watching. So we escalated and set the super-duper killer traps. But I am humane, and will give intelligent creatures a chance. I placed the ‘humane’ trap next to the super-duper trap. Then, fifteen minutes after going to bed…

Snap.

The mouse, cute but stupid, took the bait.

And now, our home is our castle again.

(And no, George wouldn’t let me put it’s head on a stake in the kitchen as a warning, like they did in the ‘olden days’, mores the pity.)