The Mouse

I stayed at my parents' house last night and we all got pleasantly smashed on whisky. At about 10pm my mobile phone rang. It was Carolyn. I thought I'd better come clean: "I am extremely drunk," I admitted.

You have to be very careful being drunk around Carolyn when she is sober: she makes up stories about you afterwards.

Carolyn said she needed my advice on what to feed a poorly mouse. Approximately three times a year, Carolyn and her children find some wild animal somewhere and decide it needs help. This time it was a mouse.

Carolyn's mouse
A hand and mouse today.

I advised her to let it go. But Carolyn said the mouse was too small and ill. So I advised her to try milk, sugar, brandy, chocolate or nuts. Carolyn thanked me for my advice and explained her theory that an owl must have caught three mice but dropped one of them (presumably because it only had two sets of talons). She also explained that she had been practising trampolining in the garden after her children had gone to bed.

A short while later, Carolyn phoned back. It was a bad connection. "Can you hear me?" I asked. "No!" replied Carolyn. She went on to explain that the mouse appeared to be enjoying its sherry. She had decided against opening the Champagne-Cognac.

At least, I'm pretty sure that's what happened, but I might have dreamt the whole damn thing.

Postscript: It turns out it was a vole.

Richard Carter

A fat, bearded chap with a Charles Darwin fixation.

One comment

  1. Since we all know that mice live in windmills in old Amsterdam, I imagine grain-based products would be a good choice.

    My folks live next to a field which often grows wheat. At harvest time, the mice, who were presumably living on the wheat up to that point, often find their way into the house in search or alternative nourishment.

    How does this one score on mouse-war tally? Are you penalised for abetting a mouse saviour?

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