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.