Visitors

Living out in the wilder west of Ireland, you have to get used to certain things. Like occasional incursions. Last week it was a spider which, fully spread, would have comfortably (Or more likely uncomfortably) covered the palm of my hand, skulking up the curtains. Needless to say, our vacuum cleaner was rapidly deployed and the unwanted arachnid is now bereft of life in the belly of Henry, our favourite local sucker up of all things unwanted.

Last night, well, just listen to the song:

Quite a sizeable specimen to boot. I was sitting in the Bar with Mrs S when this little brown shape scuttled in through the door, under two chairs, took one look at me and legged it pronto back the way it had come.

I jumped to my feet in a kind of ‘what the hell’ manner and followed the little interloper. He disappeared, but we did hear suspicious scrapings and scrabbling noises later that evening and also when I got up to make tea this morning, so by the sound of things he was settling in for the long haul.

Unfortunately for such visitors we do not run a hostel for refugee rodents, and not wanting any domestic faux pas caused by one of the little sods chewing through a vital wire or pipe; have deployed traps, ultrasonic rodent repellents, vinegar spray and cedar balls, just to give our visitor some not so subtle hints that he and his kind are not welcome.

Frankly I don’t care what happens. The mouse can leave the way it came or it can die. So long as it goes. I am not squeamish when it comes to removing corpses. I just don’t want stuff to go “Phizz-put” leaving the household in darkness or find myself going for an impromptu paddle first thing on a winter morning, or any other morning come to that.

That mouse is history.

Literally. Trap 1 Mouse 0. Home win for the trap team.

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