It turns out, the mouse from two Thursdays ago managed to defy the trap we had set up for it. It made a nest out of it, trailing blue bits of poison as it scurried noisily around the flat during the night.
We were not impressed.
The next evening, I heard some rustling in the mouse trap. And then some scratching on my suitcase. Then some noise across the room near the kitchen.
I peeked out under my duvet and saw a mouse casually, head-first, enter a hole.
So that was … a black mouse, the first one; a brown one hidden behind the wardrobe; and a grey one that had actually fallen from upstairs and landed with a mild squat. We were no longer dealing with mouse but mice. Plural.
We did a spring-clean the next day. We stuffed cotton balls with peppermint in the hole. We bought a mint tree. I trapped the mouse behind my wardrobe with tissue and my English-Dutch dictionary. It pulled the tissue through to add to its nest and failed spectacularly to gnaw its way through the dictionary. It succeeded in escaping, however, and scaled the kitchen wall to have a gander at my roommate.
The next day, we managed to lure the cat in (and by lure, it was a combination of continuous miaowing and backing into our room) and we shifted the wardrobe to reveal a sleepy mouse.
The mouse caught on quite quickly. It ran. And hid.
Er. The cat enjoyed our floor as it stretched and yawned. And eventually fell asleep on my bed.
I spent the next two nights sleeping next door, and the night after that in a hotel. Yeah, yeah, yeah.
On Wednesday, we were graced with the presence of dubbed Mouse Man from the office. The office had wanted to delay his visit until next week because Girls, mice are not a big deal; man the fuck up and sort it out yourselves. (This just augmented the theory that they were definitely not the type of people to grab Liz, go to the Winchester, have a nice cold pint, and wait for all of this to blow over.) Mouse Man filled up the hole with some substance and instructed us not to touch it for a day or so.
“I have absolutely no interest in touching it. At all. Seriously. No worries here.”
He did that Dutch thing where they pretend they understand you and the right corner of their mouths slightly jerk up in acknowledgement. But inside, they’re thinking What the actual …
I am well-acquainted with this Dutch thing.
Ah, but I digress.
To cut a fairly long, traumatic (for the mice, no doubt) story short: so far, so good. No more mice. I play Billy Joel loudly (no regrets). The cat sleeps on the sofa.
All is normal.