Man or a mouse?

I have an embarrassing confession to make.

I have at least one, and possibly two, mice in my house. And I'm not talking the technological variety.

I first heard some scratching in my bedroom after my Christmas party where I successfully managed to 'quality control' copious quantities of Croser champagne, so wasn't sure if I was just hallucinating or whether the bloody neighbour had decided to get up early and garden instead of allowing me to sleep off my hangover enjoy a luxurious and not-often-enjoyed lie in.

However it was all confirmed when out of the corner of my sleepy eyes last week, I caught a glimpse of movement in my mirrored cupboard doors (bad feng shui, I know. I'm a renter, what can I say) and saw the little rat bastard scurry for all it was worth to hide underneath my lovely tallboy where it seems to have made itself at home.

Since then there've been sightings in my room, the kitchen, E's bedroom and the laundry for some godforsaken reason. We can't categorically decide if it's the same bloody rodent or a goddamn family.

Ugh.

Now the only time I've ever had a mouse in my house was in Cairns where I took the incredibly grown-up approach and promptly packed my bags and stayed with friends until my neighbour kindly informed me he had caught the offender.

Wussy? Probably. But just the thought of the horrible little things scurrying around my place makes me feel quite ill. Seriously, I am having nightmares about these things and their ghastly little feet crawling across my face at night. Eeek.

Just the word vermin turns my stomach. Vermin. Such an ugly, dirty couple of syllables, right?

However this time I decided to take a much more mature approach. I would simply be inhospitable and ask it/them to leave.

Google research (which is always right, don't you know) said that they hate peppermint oil, so we've soaked bags of cotton wool in the horrible stuff and left it lying around the house. We also cleaned everything and put everything in plastic containers to cut off the food source.

It kinda worked in the way that sightings popped up in heretofore unseen places. Little fucker(s).

Mouse 1. Me, well zero.

And then I took a lovely box of chocolates all giftwrapped to my sister's place the other day, only to find the little asshole had eaten through it and nibbled on some of the chocolates. How humiliating!!!

Mouse 2. Me, still effing zero.

So I've realised I have to bring out the big guns. However, here's my second uncomfortable confession: I'm a kinda girl when it comes to these things. Yep, I'm not a man, I'm a mouse.

Uh huh, totally squeamish at the thought of having to dispose of this crawling, scurrying waste of space, no matter how much it's starting to bug. Plus some of the ways to catch the little fuckers according to the internet sound downright barbaric and there's no way I'm 'finishing off' a half dead mouse cause the bloody trap didn't work properly.

Ugh, squick. Yuck.

Anyhoo, thanks to Google (but of course) I have now found the answer in a self contained trap that has a little indicator when the mouse has been caught and then you throw it away, trap and all.

Sorry Mickey but you've driven me to it. The chocolates were the last straw. I gave you the opportunity to leave voluntarily but you've left me no choice. Big guns it is. So who's laughing now????

So it turns out I might be more of a man than a mouse after all...well kinda. Time will tell.

Bec xx