It is well-known that living in the city centre has its cons: mice.
Our friends have had mice. We have heard tales of mice in our building. But we had not actually witnessed any mice until this evening. Let’s just say, it takes me less than two seconds to reach the front door when the roommate jumps back and says, “Oo. I think I saw a mouse.”
I did, fortunately, manage to dress my cowardice up by retrieving a broom… to deftly hand towards her as I stepped tentatively forwards to, you know, seem like I was doing something useful.
We couldn’t see or hear it. We went back to our normal business.
Then, half an hour later, I saw something black run across the wall.
“Shit. I’ve just seen it!”
Cue the return of the brooms and various containers we thought might be applicable. Nada. We attempted to guide it to the door but instead of humouring us with our obstacle course, it simply scurried towards my bed.
And behind my wardrobe.
Where it still is.
(I sincerely hope.)
There was an option to move the wardrobe in an attempt to catch it, but we concluded that we had spent the last hour chasing it all over the room: it would be better to leave it there in our knowledge. It was essentially trapped.
We called the RA over who helped us with the mouse traps, and off the record, she suggested mint as a preventative measure. Google agrees. Ergo, tomorrow? I am buying peppermint oil and a mint tree. And other similar things. And then decorating the flat with all things mint-y.
It is the only way.
(That, and making sure all our food is properly stored and the flat is consistently clean.)
This is a rather uninspiring snap of the mouse trap with my alarm clock (a leaving present; don’t mock!) to weigh it down. Tissues are stuffed unceremoniously in an attempt to guide the mouse into the box. Or die behind my wardrobe. Which wouldn’t be the best thing, to be quite honest, for both us and it.