Two disturbed nights later and I am resolved to get rid of the little bastard.

(Note to readers who missed yesterday’s post: I am talking about a mouse in the attic. The LTLP has not given birth yet).

It now seems to be purposely jumping up and down on the bit of ceiling right above my head, presumably as some kind of dare. But when I stick my head up into the loft and try to surprise it with a torch, it is hiding. It is a very juvenile creature.

I purchase some traps.

Acting on advice, I buy two ‘humane’ mousetraps. They are cunning devices – once the animals get in they cannot get out again, like a rodentine direct debit arrangement with a large mail-order book club. I bait them with a generous chunk of nice malty bread, which should lure them in unless I have found one with gluten intolerance. I then climb stealthily up into the loft, like a Norfolk Steve Irwin.

Having set my ambush, I retreat stealthily downstairs, chuckling slightly.

A mice invasion occurs.

I lie awake, listening to the echo of their scratchy feet above the ceiling. This is annoying. I try not to listen. I can’t not listen. It is amazing the volume of noise one small mouse will generate given the dead silence of the small hours and some thin resonant plasterboard. Either that or it’s actually a huge great three-foot long mouse who has mutated (via chemicals etc) and has somehow slipped into the attic to plan how to satisfy its craving for human flesh.

This seems unlikely. But it is best not to take any chances.

The mouse problem taxes me. Of all creatures, I have very little against mice. They are small and furry, reasonably cute, enjoy cheese and have provided entertaining cartoon characters. It’s also likely to be a wood mouse rather than its smellier house mouse cousin. However, its continued tap dancing escapades are becoming annoying and I don’t want it to eat the stored clothing up there. The natural order of things must be restored, i.e. humans in charge (unless it is a big huge mutated flesh eating mouse, in which case it is welcome to stay and I will move).

I am a bit concerned about trying to shoot it in an enclosed space.

I resolve to buy a trap.

The LTLP inspects the envelope suspiciously.

“Open it!!! Open it!!!” I am excited.

She raises half an eyebrow.

“This had better,” she states, pursing her lips, “not be another Blake’s Seven one.”

We have joined a DVD club. It is really good. You pay them a small amount per month and the post lady brings you DVDs that you have put on a list, using the Internet. Then you watch them and wander over the road and pop them into the GPO box set into the stone wall. We joined because the LTLP is very pregnant and needs to sit down a lot and watch DVDs whilst I get her things. Apparently.

“I’m sure it isn’t.”

“You open it.”

“Can I?”

I slit open the envelope eagerly.

“What is it then?”

“Er…..”

“I don’t believe it!” she cries, snatching the disc from my hand. I step back slightly out of harm’s way.

“All I want,” she continues, “is to watch a nice fucking film. One of the ones that I put on the list. And every time we get something it’s Blake’s fucking Seven. I can’t believe you – you must have moved my choices down on the list.”

She is being unfair. “I didn’t, honest,” I plead, thinking about it for a bit. “It was probably Orac. He can control any computer, you know.”

I do not know what the LTLP has against Blake’s Seven, which was an excellent programme from the 1980s set in space. I think it is due to peer pressure that females pretend not to like things set in space, which reinforces gender stereotypes just as much as blokes not liking things about knitting and dollies.

It is either that or she is secretly jealous because she thinks I fancy Jenna (played by Sally Knyvette). I have the last laugh however as I only pretend to fancy Jenna whereas really I fancy Cally (Jan Chappell) who is the non-Agnetha one, and quite cute and vulnerable and also she is telepathic so you wouldn’t need to go through the embarrassment of asking her to dress as Kirstie Allsopp.

However clearly there is a disagreement between us.

“I will make sure that your women’s films are at the top of the list,” I promise. “Just as soon as I turn the PC on.”

We settle down to watch the episode.

“Didn’t you tell them?”

“No – I thought you told them.”

“Well – I sort of told them. That sounds like them now.”

The scrunch of Ford on gravel announces the arrival of our Sophisticated Essex Friends (SEF’s). SEF (male) and I shake hands in that matey-yet-slightly-awkward type way that blokes do when they haven’t seen each other for ages. SEF (female) and the LTLP kiss in that this-is-what-we-do-being-females-in-our-thirties type way. SEF (male) and the LTLP kiss in a naturally-delighted-to-see-you type way. SEF (female) and I kiss in an I’m-not-really-comfortable-with-all-this-kissing-business-so-I’ll-do-it-in-a-very-exaggeratedly-effusive-way-to-try-to-hide-the-fact type way. No tongues (although I would).

They start unloading piles of jumpers and warm coats and boots from the car. “All set for the Village bonfire night then?” asks my friend, in eager anticipation.

“What did you tell them?” hisses the LTLP.

Where we grew up, our town’s bonfire night was the best in the area. There was thousands of pounds worth of fireworks and food and recorded music by J.M. Jarre.

We go next door to Short Tony’s.

The spectacular is in full swing by the time we arrive. Short Tony, Big A and Narcoleptic Dave have set up the pyrotechnics from the box obtained from the local Morrison’s Supermarket, and are already sending rockets into the stratosphere.

We take shelter in the carport from the driving rain, so we can’t actually see them exploding above us, but the first ten feet or so of their ascent is jolly impressive.

Fireworks are to autumn what barbeques are to summer. For some reason blokes abandon their horror of entertaining a crowd of small children/cooking a meal for all the family and throw themselves into the task safe in the knowledge that it won’t lead to their masculinity being questioned. I introduce the SEFs to the local characters.

“Would you like some pie and peas?” asks Mrs Short Tony, proffering a dish resembling a forfeit on Saturday morning children’s television.

“Er… thank you,” replies SEF (male).

“Yes – er – we didn’t really think about getting any food in for later,” I admit, worried about our hospitality. “No – I’ll pass thanks, Mrs Short Tony.”

“It looks delicious,” maintains SEF (male).

By this point the fireworks have been exhausted, and we retire indoors for a game of darts in Short Tony’s front room pub. I sell everybody a raffle ticket for the Church bazaar.

It is good to introduce outsiders to our village events, to show them that we can do them at least as good as in London etc. I know that they will be talking about this for months to come.

By nine o’clock the LTLP is tired, but Narcoleptic Dave is hogging the sofa, so we retire back home for an early night.

‘No Smoking beyond this point’.

I stared at the new sign, impressed by its authoritarianness.

“How excitingly 2006!!!” I remarked to the Well-Spoken Barman.

“We’re trying to get ahead of legislation,” he replied.

I took my usual seat at the bar. The Village Pub (smoking side) was packed. The Village Pub (non-smoking side) was sparsely populated. I sipped my pint, reflecting on the momentous import of the new sign. It was just like being in Germany after the war. An accident of residency had found my seat in the freedom-loving smoking quarter; I could just have easily been trapped under the authoritarian jackboot of Communism (except with smoking rules).

“I think it’s good,” said Big A, puffing on a Marlboro contentedly. “It’ll definitely help me to stop.”

I am a non-smoker myself apart from occasionally when I am drunk and want to look cool, but I am uneasy about these new rules. The Village Pub is a private building, owned by the landlord. If he wants to let people smoke then it is should be his business. Nobody ever suggests that he shouldn’t serve pints in non-standard measures, block the fire exits, mix up the chopping boards or hire a twelve-piece folk band to sing in the corner. I don’t see why people should single out smoking.

“Do you really have to milk that suspense so much?” asked Short Tony from behind his pint.

“What do you mean? They love it really.”

“Can’t you just tell them that you’re only moving out temporarily whilst the builders work?”

“It wouldn’t be so much fun. Besides, shhhh, people will hear us talking about the secret internet thing.”

“I think I might order a burger.”

Thank you for your comments over the last couple of days – I’ve been a bit busy doing Important Things so haven’t been able to reply to clarify matters.

I shall indeed soon be indulging in a complete change of scene. I am moving to an old cottage in a small Norfolk village a couple of miles down the road. Just temporarily, you understand. Narcoleptic Dave has kindly let us stay there whilst building work is being done.

Normal service will continue here, perhaps with a few new characters in a different location. It will be like Joey (the hilarious spin-off from Friends not the man on Blue Peter).

It is now the weekend almost, and I need to do some shopping for the Village Bonfire Party. Have a good one, and there are some good things to read here.

The cottage is the second-oldest in the Village.

Starting life in the 1700s both probably and appropriately as some form of animal piggery place, it seems to have been converted into human accommodation soon afterwards. It was then split into three dwellings, before the gradual gentrification into hovel status that caused such ill-feeling amongst local peasants struggling to get onto the housing ladder.

In the 1800s some enterprising builder raised the roof, to provide a proper ‘upstairs’, and added a small kitchen and extra bedroom. You still had to go outside for a wee wee, though.

Frank Spencer lived here at some point in the 1970s and carried out some more additions. A small back room and conservatory. Roofing using the latest asbestos technology, he declined to use non-environmentally-friendly concrete for the foundations, relying instead on a natural earth base, reinforced with motorbike tyres.

But you no longer have to go outside for a wee wee at night: simply duck through the five-foot-one doorway into the second bedroom, totter down the narrow flight of stairs, through the lounge, through a short mysterious corridor, through the larder and you get to an indoor bathroom. If you’ve remembered to switch the hot water on you’re able to have a shower as well, although the ceiling’s not high enough to actually stand under it.

In the early twenty-first century, I engaged the Cheerful Builder. Strictly speaking a renovator, rather than a builder (although still very cheerful), the Cheerful Builder and his brother, the Cheerful Decorator, made the living area of the house beautiful and lovely and warm and cosy. Granted, there were a few false starts, particularly with regards to the chimney, but nothing a bit of work and the GNP of Portugal couldn’t fix.

But now there will be three of us.

Continued tomorrow…