Body Dysmorphic Mouse-Based Action
Mint oil is (apparently) a mouse repellent. My whole house smells like it’s brushed its teeth.
Wire wool filled with crushed glass stops them using their entry holes (supposedly). My place is Edwardian, I've used so much I've created cavity walling.
I have humane traps filled with mousey delights, and an ultrasonic anti-mouse device blaring out rodent drum and bass.
I still have mice.
I suspect they're coming in through the house being renovated next door, it started when they put down laminate flooring, and my downstairs neighbour heard one running beneath the floorboards. Now the builders have knocked a hole through the walls of both houses into the back of my bedroom wardrobe (voyeurism fail). I think it's become an entry route, which is why mousey dearest can't get enough of my boots, or he’s a goth, he did like goth classics on repeat after all.
I know I'm not the easiest flatmate, as many of my former flatmates and live-in-lovers will tell you, but mousey takes the biscuit. Although I'm wondering if mousey does take the biscuit - despite his love of ‘Come Dine with Me’ (I left the TV on and found it mysteriously retuned!), I suspect he’s remarkably health conscious. There's strong evidence. His original food sources were my vegetable rack and fruit bowl, he despises my chocolate and peanut butter laden traps.
However, the generous tyke is willing to forgo his figure to help round the house: when I forgot to vacuum under the sofa cushions he kindly munched the crumbs… and the cushions… and the cotton-wool soaked in peppermint designed to repel him, for afters. The evidence of his subsequent trip to the bathroom makes me worry he might be developing bulimia, and munching my tissues is clearly a sign of an eating disorder.
What can one do with a body dysmorphic goth mousey.
Put him out of his misery.
Death to the mousey before he’s the death of me.
After four sleepless nights and a very lovely friend taking me in, I can't bear it any more.
The rat catcher comes tonight.
Wire wool filled with crushed glass stops them using their entry holes (supposedly). My place is Edwardian, I've used so much I've created cavity walling.
I have humane traps filled with mousey delights, and an ultrasonic anti-mouse device blaring out rodent drum and bass.
I still have mice.
I suspect they're coming in through the house being renovated next door, it started when they put down laminate flooring, and my downstairs neighbour heard one running beneath the floorboards. Now the builders have knocked a hole through the walls of both houses into the back of my bedroom wardrobe (voyeurism fail). I think it's become an entry route, which is why mousey dearest can't get enough of my boots, or he’s a goth, he did like goth classics on repeat after all.
I know I'm not the easiest flatmate, as many of my former flatmates and live-in-lovers will tell you, but mousey takes the biscuit. Although I'm wondering if mousey does take the biscuit - despite his love of ‘Come Dine with Me’ (I left the TV on and found it mysteriously retuned!), I suspect he’s remarkably health conscious. There's strong evidence. His original food sources were my vegetable rack and fruit bowl, he despises my chocolate and peanut butter laden traps.
However, the generous tyke is willing to forgo his figure to help round the house: when I forgot to vacuum under the sofa cushions he kindly munched the crumbs… and the cushions… and the cotton-wool soaked in peppermint designed to repel him, for afters. The evidence of his subsequent trip to the bathroom makes me worry he might be developing bulimia, and munching my tissues is clearly a sign of an eating disorder.
What can one do with a body dysmorphic goth mousey.
Put him out of his misery.
Death to the mousey before he’s the death of me.
After four sleepless nights and a very lovely friend taking me in, I can't bear it any more.
The rat catcher comes tonight.