This morning I was woken at 5.30am by Chris getting up for work.  I eventually managed to drift back off to sleep only to be woken at 6.45 by a screeching child, waving a pair of Gruffalo socks in my face (The child was mine, by the way, otherwise that would be even more weird).
After ascertaining how early it was, I asked the boys to please play quietly in their bedroom, and curled back up under the duvet, playing a little game I like to call “Let’s pretend I don’t have any responsibilities and can stay in bed all day”, which really just involves lying very still with my eyes closed listening to the children fight with each other and destroy their room.
Only this morning the cat decided to get in on the action, by pretending my feet were his arch enemies that it was his lifelong mission to seek and destroy, or at least I can only assume that’s why he pounced from the foot of the bed and scratched one of my ankles to ribbons.
After several more visits from the children (Rudy crying because Toby yelled at and scared him, Toby wailing because Daddy is at work, each taking it in turns to march through and ‘tell tales’ on the other) I was ready to give up and face the fact that today was happening and that I’d have to get up and deal with it.
What I didn’t count on also having to deal with, was the disemboweled mouse strewn across the dining room floor.
We have mice. We have a cat. This equation usually works out pretty well, just so long as Chris is around to take care of the finalities.
Yep, I’m a bit of a girl, when it comes to rodents I’m afraid. No, really, I’m afraid. I never used to be. But then I moved to Manchester, and lived alone for a few years, in a flat with  a serious pest control problem.  I never thought I was scared of mice, until they were scurrying inside my walls and darting out from under my bed.  If you’ve ever had a rodent infestation then you’ll understand what I mean.  Every tickle across your foot in the night, every rustle from behind the furniture, has you shuddering involuntarly, tucking your knees to your chest and screaming like a fangirl (or is that just me?!)
The mice in the flat were actually the main reason I got a cat. Chris and I hadn’t been together long but he’d already unofficially moved in, and after resorting to killing a particularly peskersome mouse by dropping a Next Directory on it (following which, let it be known, that even he needed a beer) we discussed the idea of getting a pet of the feline variety.  Thus, Stitch:
Problem solved, you’d think.  Except here I am, 9 years later, having to scrape mouse intestines off the floor at 8 o clock in the morning.  Apparently, the thrill really is in the chase (and kill) whilst the disposal is still very much a human problem.
After much shuddering and retching and a quite a lot of “ick ick ick ick, oh my god, this is disgusting…arrrrrgggghhhhh” on my part, the mouse, and it’s innards, and the dustpan and brush itself were all the bin, at which point the boys (who had been banished to the living room during my fifteen minutes of dithering working up courage) burst through demanding juice and weetabix and slippers and an illustrated itinerary for the day.
Is it just me, or does anyone else miss mornings that involved nothing more than sex, and coffee, and maybe a long hot shower whilst deciding what to do with the day?



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