Thursday, March 16, 2006

Mr Mouse

I had just got back from shopping and was sitting on the sofa where I caught a glimpse of a light brown furry thing moving along the skirting board. In a loud voice I said ‘Excuse Me! And the mouse promptly ran down a small hole around the radiator pipe.

Urgh. I have had furry visitors before, but I haven’t seen one in about 18 months. I shouldn’t be surprised as over the last few nights I have been hearing strange tip tappy noises coming from the kitchen.

Anyway, after I saw the mouse I went into the kitchen, there on one of the surfaces were two mouse droppings and a single flake of Special K. I cleaned up with antibacterial spray and sheets, then I washed my hands about three times. As a kid I suffered from OCD quite badly, so it trigged a bit of the old behaviour. Anyway after having a nap of about three hours, I went back into the kitchen. I heard a funny noise coming from the kitchen cupboard - a banging and a rustling.

I opened the cupboard and began to gingerly move stuff out, first of all some beluga wheat, then a tin of tomatoes, and then a mouse falling down onto the oven. I screamed the highest pitched scream, (I have deafened a few of the gay dogs in the neighbourhood) as the mouse did a kind of half pike fall and then struggled down between the very small gap between the oven and counter. I immediately telephoned my Dad (not only am I a Mummy’s boy but I’m a big Daddy’s girl too) but there was no response.

In my mild panic, I kept thinking do other people have mice? Do bloggers have mice? I can’t imagine Reluctant nomad having these kind of visitors, or Rhino 75 or Lubin. (But now I am thinking about what type of mouse would they have? Reluctant Nomad’s mouse would obviously be travelling but leaving a trail of breadcrumbs, Rhino 75 reading Sartre, and Lubin’s watching Bad Girls whilst flicking through ‘Cultural Review’.

The next few days came more visitations. I heard Mr. Mouse behind the oven squeaking, I found that the wrapper from a bottle of oil had been eaten, and that the Microwave had been thoroughly investigated. This mouse is easily more adventurous than the last one, and as I have said, more vocal. I believe he or she is a rookie mouse, just learning their way in mousedom, and bloody shitting all the way!

My mother on the other hand thinks the mouse is cute – I am convinced that she thinks the mouse wears white gloves and trousers with two buttons on them. Anyway, I’ve put poison down and Mr. Mouse seems to have disappeared. I’m hoping he’s gone to the flat across from me. I heard them shagging in the shower (the ‘what are you doing here?', the giggles, and then the creepy silence) – it put me right off my toilet reading of the Argos catalogue, I can tell you.

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Where posh meets dodgy

I live in a part of Edinburgh where dodgy meets posh. If you turn one corner you meet Valvona and Crolla – an Italian delicatessen that attracts more pashminas, wax jackets and green Wellington boots than Prince William at St.Andrews University. If you turn the other corner you are in a world of old men masturbating in public, casual violence, and drunks struggling out of the gutter.

The other day I was walking near Valvona and Crolla, and was waiting for the green man to cross the road. Up behind me I heard a strained voice, a small woman with hair down to her waist with a full length mushroom coloured mac saying ‘I will not wear my skirt up my arse for any man’, ‘I will not wear a skirt up my arse for any man’.

She looked at me, and repeated herself again ‘I will not wear a skirt up my arse for any man’ more loudly and insistently. I know it sounds strange but her voice had that same desperation as a mother bird who calls incessantly for a lost chick who she will never find. I was about to ask her the woman if she was all right but I noticed that each time she repeated her mantra she would gnash her teeth and foam at the mouth. I was scared and stepped away.

I’ve seen her a few more times, she looks happier, somewhere beyond where posh meets dodgy.