We has mice...

Yes as 2008 limps and coughs its rattling way to a halt, I have a sorry admission to make: we have mice. Not in the house, and not in the garden - Grendel is far too conscientious in her slaughtering of the local fauna for that - no, our mice are in an all together more embarrassing location.

She Who Must Have A Four-Wheel-Drive Truck Thing To Get Up And Down The Country Lanes Of Much Muddiness And Occasional Snow has a mouse-infested car.

Well, I say 'mouse-infested', but we've never actually seen any of twichy-nosed little buggers, so it could only be the one mouse. But if that's the case it's a sodding dedicated mouse. Probably huge, with like, ten legs and teeth the size of kitchen knives, and a tail like a pig on steroids... or something. It's a cheeky wee bugger as well, last time I drove She Who Must's Daihatsu 4Trak there was a single, insolent mouse jobbie right there on the dashboard behind the steering wheel.

A jobbie.

There was a mouse jobbie in my wife's car. The rotten little furry bastard has been eating things as well: the underside of the driver's seat looks like someone's taken a cheese grater to it. Next up will be the electrics.

Apparently this isn't that uncommon for people who live in the country. The mice like to climb up the tyres, get into the bodywork via the wheel arches, and then live the life of Riley... assuming Riley was a small mouse trapped inside a rusty Daihatsu 4Trak that smells of horse. Which doesn't sound so great to me, but then I'm not a mouse.

Grendel's no help either. Yes, she's a dab paw at slaughtering the little rodenty sods when they're in the wild, but she hates getting into the car. Every time we put her in there she starts to shout rude things about not wanting to go to the vet. Very, very rude things. The sort of things a fluffy cat shouldn't even know how to spell, let alone shout.

Of course, I suppose I could get some mousetraps and plant them about the car's interior, bait them with peanut butter and wait to see what happens... but that seems a tad surreal.

"What are you doing this weekend, Stuart?"
"Oh, I'm buying a bunch of mousetraps for my wife's car."
"Your wife's car? Is it eating holes in the skirting boards? Devouring all your cheese? What kind of crazy-arsed car did you buy?"
"No, you idiot, the car got mice."
"The car's got mice?"
" ... OK, no more wine for you."

Plus it's the festive season. Who wants to evict a little fuzzy mouse over Christmas? That's like some sort of diseased Disney movie, isn't it? Where we follow our plucky mouse hero as the nasty man with a beard tries to evict him from the innards of an ancient Daihatsu 4Trak by a succession of ever more desperate plans. And in the end we all learn something about love,, and tolerance and the importance of friendship. *shudder*

I'll give the little sod till tomorrow. Then he's out of there.

In the meantime, I wish you all a good Old Year's Night, and Happy New Year when it comes. Unless you're a mouse: in which case you can bugger off.

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