I am stranded in my bedroom while a teeny little mouse runs riot downstairs.
There I was minding my own business, feasting on a plateful of serrano and salami, and worrying about little Ray on The X-Factor, when out the corner of my eye I saw a titchy witchy little field mouse run behind the
So in a very girly fashion I put in a distress call to John from next door but one, who came running in, armed himself with Finleys light sabre and danced about on tip toe, plainly more scared than I will ever be. So I stood on the sofa crying laughing while he performed a variety of impressive ninja style antics on a piece of string that had got caught in the bottom of his jeans, and then he did a whole lot of furniture removal, emptied a bell jar full of linen, set up a makeshift trap and abandoned me to deal with the little critter all on my lonesome.
It’s not like I’m scared. I just don’t want anything uninvited crawling around under my
Tell a lie. I’m not scared, I’m frightened out of my wits. I blame the christmas tree. I bet I carried the little nightmare in myself.
Housekeepers, the time has come: I need to borrow a husband. Please send a big, burly one round as soon as possible or it will have to be gin and valium to see me throught the night.
Somebody knock me out.