Yesterday afternoon, whilst mon pére was here, I popped into the bathroom to stack some clean towels away. As I bent to the floor my eyes were assaulted by the sudden and completely unprovoked (and, might I add, unwelcome) vision of a mouse on the floor.
Now, this was not a cheerful mouse. It was a not a bright, bubbly, sociable looking mouse. It would be fair to say that this particular mouse was downright miserable. In fact let’s abandon all pretence and admit once and for all that, rather than a Disney mouse this was a Monty Python mouse. It was very, very dead.
Before I admit what happened next, allow me to assure you that I am not generally a ‘girlish squeal’ kind of person. I pride myself on my ability to trap spiders under glassware and release them into the wild with barely a shudder. But, the sudden apparition of this furry corpse was somewhat of a surprise to me and I confess I screamed. A proper ‘Eeeeeeeeeeek’ type scream.
My father, to his credit, shot into the bathroom with a commendable turn of speed; the like of which he doesn’t usually produce unless he hears the immortal phrase ‘The buffet is now open’. Elbowing me out of the way, he pronounced with great relish “Aha! A job for a man, this!” and proceeded to dispose of the pitiful little scrap without further ado. Before I could stop him.
Into my TOILET.