Barren Mare

Small but annoying potatoes

I was going to tell the Tale of the Ring, as promised, but I confess I am not having the best of weeks and am not in a great frame of mind. It seems petulant to complain about the relatively minor things that are weighing me down- compared to the real problems of others, it is small potatoes. And yet, they are my small potatoes and seem in need of unloading all the same.   

Knox had his Big Important Scary Interview yesterday for his dream job, but he didn't get through to the next stage of the recruitment process. This is disappointing, to be sure but he was quite preoccupied with preparing for it for ages now, and everything else has had to temporarily take a back seat. That might not ordinarily would be not such a big deal except that there's this WEDDING and all, and I am beginning to anxiously watch the days slip by with certain key details (you know, flowers, music, how am I actually going to get to the venue in my pretty white frock) still not nailed down.

Then I feel silly because after all, it's still not entirely clear what he is going to do for a job in the same city as me and Botany and in the long run, that's more important (and scary).

The goddamn mouse is still in residence. I know I said I would stop wittering on about it so much but it's starting to really bug me that the little fucker is managing to crap absolutely everywhere and is utterly resistant to bait, traps and other cruel and unusual methods of destruction. Plus it makes me jump out of my skin every time I unthinkingly wander into the kitchen for a glass of water without turning on the light first and next thing I know there's a small gray object darting across the floor.

I'm worried about money. When I moved into this flat last year, the valuation report flagged up that the windows needed some repairs and maintenance. Since the whole experience of splitting up with E. was already so eyewateringly expensive, I halfheartedly got one quote from a company that weren't really all that interested in doing the work, and then I did nothing else about it. Turns out that original estimate was way off base, because a year and two more quotes later, I have a better idea of what it will really cost. And it's hideous. I can either stump up the cash now and be done with it, or spend the next winter shivering in the icy cold drafts wafting in with a repeat of last season's ghastly fuel bills. Unfortunately I am also spurting money from every artery on wedding related gubbins and you know, generally, the economic climate is not looking so hot just now. 

Botany's early morning wakings are maddeningly close to being something resembling manageable in that she has taken to sleeping until 6-6.30 most days. Then, just when we think we're doing better, she pulls a 5am wake up (or earlier) call for several days in a row. It's become an extremely sore point between me and Knox as to how to handle it; in fact, probably the only thing we ever argue about. In many ways I worry more about her wake ups contributing to the friction about the issue than I do about actually having to get out of bed.

There are other various and sundry tensions brewing with family members which I am not at liberty to write about for fear of discovery. But let's just say I am especially stressed about it given that I'm not sure how to resolve the issues, other than to give myself a personality transplant together with rewriting my chequered past.    

Lastly, I have a spot the size of Nebraaaaaskka on my chin. I know I should leave it Strictly Alone but I am never very good at that, plus it hurts and I find myself inadvertently clawing at it. It's so yucky that Botany has actually taken to pointing at it, or even poking it with her little finger saying, "Mummy has sore spot on chin." Yes, darling. Thank you for repeating that in front of my parents, the grocery store clerk and the nursery staff. Your verbal skills are outstanding.

Really, Botany's speech does make my jaw drop regularly these days. It's actually starting to freak me out a little. Yesterday I put a new dress on her and she said quite calmly and clearly, "take the tags off."  This kid is 22 months going on 12. And she's healthy, gorgeous and bright as a button- which, when I think about it,  makes the above complaints pale into tiny spuds of insignificance.

Because it's always fun to rearrange the furniture anyway!

Traps O'Death were already being deployed at the time of the writing of that last post. That is, the serious no-more-messing-around-you-little-bastards-neck snappers and the poison snacks were deposited at strategic mouse-favoured locations. Well out of the reach of even the most intrepid of Botanies, I might add. I tried various baits, although it turned out we were out of peanut butter. After nearly a week with no results (and more mouse antics in the night), I broke down and got out the mothballs.

Someone wise suggested that if I used mothballs my house would stink like old, incontinent people. Forever. I laughed when I read that comment and chuckled a bit more when I first opened the package, because damn! These really are some whiffy little items. Then I winced a bit as I strew the smelly things about the flat, silently chanting "Beloved grandmother's attic. This reminds me of my beloved grandmother's attic".

When Knox arrived, he wrinkled his nose as soon as he walked in the door and said, "Phew. It smells like old, incontinent people in here."  At which point even I had to concede that it simply reeked. Oh well, I said, we can try it for one night.

You would have thought I had put down the equivalent of mouse catnip, because that night, they came and cavorted about the bedroom like never before. Well, I was actually sound asleep, but Knox lay awake, witnessing the whole thing. The mouse came in, tapdanced around the shoes for a bit (where I had most liberally placed the mothballs), scampered up and down the length before ascending into my laundry basket.

Then, he reported incredulously in the morning, the mouse leapt straight out of the basket and clung on to that nice blue woolen scarf I have hanging on a hook on the back of the door. There it swayed, suspended above the floor, presumably trying to work out how to scale the Everest proportions of the wardrobe itself to reach the nappy bag on top, before dropping off and running away to feast on whatever crumbs Botany had dropped under her highchair.

It was like the Mouse Olympics, Knox said, shuddering. I would not have believed him about the scarf on the door thing, but Knox is not prone to making stuff like that up.

So, in the morning, the mothballs were removed and all windows opened to try to clear the stench. Fortunately, since it was only one night, it doesn't seem the odour was permanent, although amazingly hard to get rid of the smell despite the relatively short length of time. You have been warned, ye who would consider mothballs.

As far as the ongoing mouse problem, I decided the solution was to remove all the shoe storage boxes (leaving nowhere to hide) and to relocate the laundry basket in a less mouse friendly location and to pull the wardrobe out from wall making it less of a desirable place to hang out, all the more so with poison and Trap of Death at either end (to be removed in the day time from botanical reach). That night, we spotted the mouse in the kitchen, obviously looking for a new home. We sealed up the room that night, apart from the hole in the back of the refrigerator where they are obviously coming and going, and in the morning we took the bold step of sealing that hole as well, in the hope that the mouse had gone there rather than say, behind the cooker.

Since then, it's been a mouse free zone in my room- so far, anyway- and we're hoping the rest of the flat is similarly cleared, although I am less optimistic about that.

I was just breathing a sigh of relief as I stood by the bedroom window sill, folding my laundry, when a gigantic spider ran out from behind Knox's underpants and sat there glowering at me while I freaked out elaborately.   

Next time, I promise: less rodents and more wedding chat! I believe I owe you a story about the ring.       

Mousefestation

It appears you are all too scared of catching my computer cooties to comment. Never mind. I think (I hope) my clever father may have fixed it. Or at least he ripped out the system's guts, performed emergency surgery and stapled it all back together again. It is functioning, for now, although I am not completely optimistic that the problem is completely eradicated.

Much like the problem with the mice in this flat. Following a long quiet spell after the murder of Graham Mouse, the mouse family is back- at least one, or possibly two. Unfortunately, it seems that the mouse clan has decided to relocate into my bedroom- specifically, behind my wardrobe. I suppose I could live with a certain amount of scampering around the flat, but when it's happening right next to my bed, it gives me the heebies.

Worse still, the mice are demonstrating a decided fondness for my laundry basket. Over the weekend,  I stashed the nappy bag there (thinking, tra la la, that I needed to make sure the bag was off the floor so the mice didn't get into it.) Then, as I was changing the bedsheets, I heard a rustling of tiny mouse feet coming from inside the bag. I ran to get Knox, and he quickly zipped up the bag opening. He held it up.

"I bet the mouse is long gone," he said.

"I wouldn't be so sure- I think it is still in there," I told him. So we waited it out, placing the bag in a quiet corner. Sure enough, about half an hour later, we heard telltale scrabbles. Eek. Knox bravely embarked on a bit of mouse relocation out in the garden- as soon as he opened the bag, the thing leaped about ten feet in the air, straight past him and into the sanctuary of the stone wall.

In hindsight we probably should have tried to take the mouse a bit further afield, because within a day or so, we were hearing the same familiar noises. I wouldn't have necessarily thought it was the same mouse, except it keeps heading for the damn laundry basket in the bedroom. Last night, I was awakened at 1am by the sound of small chomping noises coming from the laundry corner. With the aid of a broom handle, I poked the basket and the mouse shot out over the side (scaring the beejezus out of me, I might add) and off behind the wardrobe. I threw my coat over the top of the basket but evidently that was not enough of a deterrent from whatever appealing morsel it was in search of, since an hour or so later, I woke up again to hear the mouse making merry amongst my dirty linen. This time, when I stabbed the basket, the mouse made its escape over the side again but changed direction mid leap, heading straight for my feet, causing me to pinwheel frantically backwards still clutching the broom handle and emitting a muffled shriek.

This morning as I sat hollow eyed with exhaustion at my desk, a colleague said sympathetically,

"Botany keeping you up all night?"

"Nah," I said, "laundry mouse." 

Cue look of bemused confusion at the gibbering idiot.

So, I've had enough of the mouse antics, and from now on, it's war. War, I tell you!  I'm going in all guns blazing with all removal mechanisms at my disposal. Somebody once suggested mothballs, which I will try, though these are surprisingly tricky to find. There's no evidence of moths in the flat as yet, but given that we seem to be suffering from all sorts of infestations stemming from various sources, it can do no harm to have a two for the price of one method. 

The rot within

Over the last week, my computer has developed some horrendous virus. The result is a machine tottering around like a deranged zombie, lurching uninvited into suspect websites before crashing out without warning midway through attempts at corrective navigation or experimental immunisation. It really is dire, not to mention tedious and frustrating.

I've tried several things to beat the bug but nothing is working so I think at this point I probably lack the technological whizzbangery to fix it. If my dad can't get it straightened out, I might have to take it to the computer doctor. However, it was become somewhat elderly anyway, so if all else fails, I will give it a decent burial and purchase something new (read: small, cheap and spritely). It's not exactly my ideal time to be buying a computer- there are, after all, still shoes to be bought for a forthcoming wedding- but living without a reliable means of internet access is not feasible either.  

My posting capacities will no doubt self-destruct in approximately thirty seconds, so I will keep it brief by telling you all is well here, and promising to be back one way or another very, very soon.