Our flat, quiet and serene, has a mouse problem.

Next door used to have a mouse problem, but they apparently moved out because of it, and now we have a mouse problem instead, which is awesome. Our landlord has put traps and poison boxes outside, but mostly said “It’s an old house, the mice are under the floorboards, sorry about that”. It’s not an old house, it’s a custom built block of flats. However.

I bought a humane mouse trap, because I’m not a fan of the killing of things save for the later eating of them, and kind of hoped it didn’t work, because the concept of taking a mouse on the bus and releasing it elsewhere didn’t appeal. Mostly because that’s just transferring the mouse problem to somewhere else – there’s nowhere I can get to on public transport within a couple of hours that isn’t basically London – but also because I’m not sure how it would work.

My wish granted, the mouse trap has stayed behind the bin for over a year now with no interest from the mice. 

They have, however, been at my flour.

A few weeks ago, there was a small crash from the kitchen, followed by a series of panicked squeaks. Further investigation revealed the aftermath of some kind of Tom & Jerry sketch. A large bag of flour, a panel of neatly nibbled edges from near the bottom of it, an avalanche of flour that exploded from the top of the shelving unit where the flour was, dusting everything to the floor with a coat of flour, a mouse-shaped pit at the start of the avalanche, complete with fresh droppings, and skidded paw-prints from there to behind the fridge.

I cleared up the flour, discovered the amazing adhesive properties of mouse shit when mixed with white flour, and ordered some mouse poison. I am a pacifist, but screwing with my food supplies is not cool.

This morning, I discovered the exactly the same tableau, only with a bag of self raising flour I’d forgotten I’d relocated. Once is unfortunate, twice is enemy action.

The kitchen now has strategically placed blocks of hopefully mouse-friendly-looking pink stuff near places I’ve seen them. With any luck they will associate the illness with fucking with my chi, and instead go and bother whichever concrete-footed volume-ignorer was practicing Riverdance early this morning.