Mice. Thrice. Wee bandits.
I don’t want to believe it but I have to because it’s true.
Haven’t seen them for a while, the little imps. Maybe they’ve been on holiday, away visiting cousins in Westmoreland Street or something.
Now they’re back, in the bathroom, behind the toilet, scampering around without a care in the world. Wind in their hair, wagging their tails, excited to be here, delighted to see you, always a pleasure.
But now I need more eyes, so I can see out the corner of them.
Every time I enter a room I need to scan so many surfaces to see who is scurrying over what. Both sides of the sink for a start, and then also the floor. That’s three places right there but I have only two eyes. You do the mathematic.
I just don’t have enough eyes to cope.
Don’t know what it is with wildlife and me. Is it payback time for my destructive lifestyle? Could be. There’s too much destruction in the world, it’s true.
I also believe children are the future. But not mice. Nope. Sorry, chaps. Not having it. No way.
Getting myself a cat, a lynx, a lion, a tiger, a leopard. Keep a jaguar in the backcourt, a puma on the landing, a cougar guarding the parking place outside my gaff.
Stick that in your lunch box, mice.
Just hope Lidl still have those panthers in stock.