make a mountain out of it
When I trotted into the Evil Landlord's study this morning to break out a new, fresh pack of the day's Iburst, there was a suspicious rustling from the corner of the desk.
Regretfully discarding the theory that the impressive collection of pack-rat junk in the EL's study had achieved sentience and was flexing its paper tentacles preparatory to lurching down the passage and demanding some nice pulp fantasy for breakfast, I informed the Evil Landlord that he had mice. He admitted that, in fact, during the small hours one of the cats had brought something alive into the study and released it, in that inquisitive, controlled-experiment sort of way cats have.
"I heard it rustling around in there last night," he said. "I think it might be a giant cockroach."
Discarding this as some kind of futile attempt to keep me away from the Iburst, I poked cautiously around in the corner of the study, to find that there was, in fact, an active, 20cm mole running along a shelf, with that adorable fluffy clockwork train motion they have presumably developed as a defense mechanism against soft-hearted humans.
"Mole!" I meeped. "It's alive! It's cute! bring a box!"
The EL made some sort of murbling noise to indicate that all the boxes were stashed in the roof, and then, applying the usual meticulous and pinpoint German efficiency to the problem, went ambling off to work, apparently unmoved by the problem of a small creature trapped indefinitely in an unfamiliar and foodless environment. Seizing the chance offered by his indifference, the mole scuttled off somewhere and disappeared, like a small clockwork train going into a tunnel, although without the ear-splitting whistle.
A 10-minute study search reveals nothing, which suggests that the bothersome beast has gone to ground in one of the desk drawers. I have shut the study door in an effort to (a) keep the cats out, and (b) persuade the mole to venture forth so that I can swoop on it and incarcerate it temporarily in a friendly and welcoming box-like structure before releasing it into the wilds on the Common with a hearty handshake and my goodwill. Having fortified myself with a refreshing bout of blogging, I shall now go forth and do battle. If, after thuds, screams and epic grappling I am not heard of henceforth, it means my early-morning shortsightedness was more extreme than usual and, in classic Goon Show fashion, the label around its neck that I thought read "M-O-L-E" actually read "L-I-O-N".
But I seriously wonder what my Evil Landlord would do without me to resolve these little domestic crises. He's still riding on the wave of having rescued the last mole-like intruder from under the piano, which became necessary because I, my mother and starmadeshadow were helpless with giggling. I don't think it's a sufficient argument.
Regretfully discarding the theory that the impressive collection of pack-rat junk in the EL's study had achieved sentience and was flexing its paper tentacles preparatory to lurching down the passage and demanding some nice pulp fantasy for breakfast, I informed the Evil Landlord that he had mice. He admitted that, in fact, during the small hours one of the cats had brought something alive into the study and released it, in that inquisitive, controlled-experiment sort of way cats have.
"I heard it rustling around in there last night," he said. "I think it might be a giant cockroach."
Discarding this as some kind of futile attempt to keep me away from the Iburst, I poked cautiously around in the corner of the study, to find that there was, in fact, an active, 20cm mole running along a shelf, with that adorable fluffy clockwork train motion they have presumably developed as a defense mechanism against soft-hearted humans.
"Mole!" I meeped. "It's alive! It's cute! bring a box!"
The EL made some sort of murbling noise to indicate that all the boxes were stashed in the roof, and then, applying the usual meticulous and pinpoint German efficiency to the problem, went ambling off to work, apparently unmoved by the problem of a small creature trapped indefinitely in an unfamiliar and foodless environment. Seizing the chance offered by his indifference, the mole scuttled off somewhere and disappeared, like a small clockwork train going into a tunnel, although without the ear-splitting whistle.
A 10-minute study search reveals nothing, which suggests that the bothersome beast has gone to ground in one of the desk drawers. I have shut the study door in an effort to (a) keep the cats out, and (b) persuade the mole to venture forth so that I can swoop on it and incarcerate it temporarily in a friendly and welcoming box-like structure before releasing it into the wilds on the Common with a hearty handshake and my goodwill. Having fortified myself with a refreshing bout of blogging, I shall now go forth and do battle. If, after thuds, screams and epic grappling I am not heard of henceforth, it means my early-morning shortsightedness was more extreme than usual and, in classic Goon Show fashion, the label around its neck that I thought read "M-O-L-E" actually read "L-I-O-N".
But I seriously wonder what my Evil Landlord would do without me to resolve these little domestic crises. He's still riding on the wave of having rescued the last mole-like intruder from under the piano, which became necessary because I, my mother and starmadeshadow were helpless with giggling. I don't think it's a sufficient argument.