I’m pretty certain I have a mouse in my bedroom. Mainly because I’m no longer the only one in the room swooning along to the new xx album (this mouse is big, like extraterrestrial B.I.G. – the room tilts when it rolls to the other end), but also because my flatmate spotted it shuffling along the windowsill earlier this week. I have a mouse in my house and I don’t know what to do. Date with the exterminator aside, I feel like I need to welcome this mouse into our household. I realise I probably just described a Babybel rather than a domesticated rodent but, given that I’ve never actually seen the beast, I feel like I can use my imagination a tad to distort things.
I like to think that this mouse-man wears breeches, paints nudes and dyes his fur blue. He’s romantically involved with multiple mice-ladies and snorts cocaine leisurely. He craps over things he does and doesn’t like and often turns violent at the mention of cheese. He’s the Sid to our Nancy flat, and their dysfunctional relationship is both beautiful and terrifying (you should’ve heard the screams from our flat today, upon a recent sighting of our furry pal).
I think I’ll be sad to see him leave.
Look out for his obituary next week.
P.S. Is it very obvious that I had nothing to write about this week? Pet stories welcome, but no images, please – I like to keep my rats dark and mysterious, thanks.