Apparently, according to Letad and the Dad of Letad, mice love chocolate.
The deluxe holiday relocation boxes didn’t seem to work, Boris Morris the little Brown Mouse didn’t arrive with his knotted handkerchief on a stick all ready to go to Ibiza and so reluctantly I handed over rodent removal responsibilities to Letad.
He bought two of the nasty decapitating type of mousetraps at the local hardware shop and that was that.
The nasty mousetraps were baited with some rather nice Lindt dark chocolate with sea salt. A bit of a waste but perhaps appealing to the more discerning kind of mouse. Traps were carefully arranged in the kitchen where Letad unfortunately stood on one (and survived) and then we waited for the unpleasant and inevitable snap.
Except it never came.
Turning on the light I saw Boris Morris dash from under the fridge to his garden path down the side of the washing machine. He avoided the mousetraps and luxury chocolate completely and obviously wasn’t interested in either dying or going on holiday.
He is not an average mouse by the look of things.
And so now I sit, looking longing at small squares of my favourite treat wasted on the mouse who doesn’t like chocolate.
Having been to collect my outrageously expensive new specs, I decided to try them out watching a programme on BBC iPlayer.
Things are much bigger than they were before and while I can see well without them, I will admit I’m not squinting or leaning forward. Perhaps I needed them after all!
It’s a slippery slope and with another middle aged birthday rapidly approaching, I will only be wearing specs at work so I can actually see what I’m supposed to be doing.
Other than that, I look like a librarian!
I have finally broken down and ordered my first pair of reading glasses. It’s time to admit that having fought the good (eyesight) fight for many years, I’m now struggling to see my computer screen properly.
I blame the ambient overhead fluorescent lighting, (bad) mood lighting as I like to think of it. But there I sit, squinting at a 27 inch monitor, things looking a little blurry and so it’s time.
Being me I have ordered a stylish pair of Oliver Peoples frames (my sunglasses of choice for years) which (also being me and a creature of habit) I’ll have for the next twenty years or until I lose them, whichever comes first.
And so, a few more days of squinting until I join the bespectacled masses. I fought long and hard but it seems my time is up.
Now, where’s the publish button?
Having boasted recently of the lack of rain this summer, it would appear that Bertha had other plans.
The tail end of an Atlantic hurricane (Bertha) whipped through London and the rest of the UK over the last couple of days bringing storms of biblical proportions; darkening skies, slashes of lightening, rumbling thunder and lashings of torrential rain.
I do like a good storm but it’s always preferable with an umbrella. Case in point, walking home from work this evening. I’d blithely disregarded the weather, skipped (or rather trudged) off to work only to discover a heavy downpour as I emerged for the evening.
By the time I reached the Farm, I was soaked to the skin.
Ready to go back to summer now please…
Despite the best of efforts, a challenging weekend and a sigh of relief as Monday morning arrived. Immersion in work, always a good tonic.
Saturday and we set off with the teenagers and the dad of Letad in tow.
The plan for the day, a boat trip to Greenwich, then lunch followed by the cable car across the river then back on the DLR, the tube and the underground.
It was a public transport day of delight with every mode covered except buses.
It was a good London day out, sunny but with light clouds, a very English sky and enough breeze to almost blow away the thick black diesel fumes of the boat.
Arriving in North Greenwich we saw the O2 arena, formerly known as the millennium dome and we boarded the cable car across the river.
A quick ride indeed but we enjoyed the views and before long, arrived at the Royal Docks. From there it was on to the DLR, the District Light Rail winding its way through the East End until we arrived at Bank.
Before long we were back in the house of the dad of Letad where we were spending the weekend. We decided to delve into the family tree of the clan where we discovered American and French ancestors lurking in the closest. Apparently news to some.
It was an interesting evening but soon tired from the fresh(ish) air on the water, an early night was had by all.
Eek, a small brown mouse nonchalantly strolled across the kitchen and ducked under the fridge. It would appear we have acquired an unintentional pet.
He did run back the other way and I know where he lives. He seems rather comfortable (and quite confident) but not overly intrusive but still, a mouse is a mouse and I suspect he’s not a solitary mouse.
And so, with ants and mice, it would appear time to take action. The Farm in Chalk Farm is not meant to be a reality and so off to the hardware store I went.
Ant powder resulted in a mass suicide which I felt slightly but not very guilty about.
The mouse dilemma however is harder. I weighed up the options. Screaming live mouse trapped on glue pad, dead or maimed mouse using traditional trap or deluxe moving service known as a humane mouse trap.
I chickened out and went for the deluxe moving service. Once said mouse has packed his knotted handkerchief and entered the box, he will be rehoused to someone else’s flat or perhaps the top of Primrose Hill. Hopefully he doesn’t have a homing device to return for the winter.
So far I’m extremely glad his larger cousins haven’t come to stay…