There was a mouse in our Bondi home tonight.
A grey coloured, hairy creature hid behind the fridge as I stood there in an i’m-going-to-attack-you-with-a-saucepan stance. The sad part is, I actually wasn’t going to do anything to the bastard. I was scared out of my lungs to even breathe, leave aside hound him with my non existant mouse-killing brave skills. My plan was to sprint for my life if the mouse ran towards me. But just to calm myself (and Pats – another scared housey) down, I was a hero for the two minutes before the squeaking started.
He squeaked with pride, and I squealed in terror.
I’d like to believe that his squeak was oozing with condescending evil grins about how two perfectly abled humans couldn’t touch him. And he was probably giggling at our ridiculousness. But what the hell, he has a tail, whiskers and a pointed nose – that’s something to be scared of, right?!
This is when it hit me, I know absolutely no one who can barge in those doors of our house like a true hero in a white cape and all that, to save our sorry arses from this mousey night of horror. No one at all.
That’s where the problem starts and ends with being alone – no one can kill a mouse for me. Not in Sydney at least. If this mouse would have been in Delhi or Brisbane, I had my peeps to save me there. But here, it’s a whole new sad story. Leave taking me out for dinner or picking me up from the airport, no can KILL A MOUSE FOR ME in this town engulfed of testosterone.
I not only have to resort to a ‘Table for One’ situation on a regular basis, but now also have to deal with mice in my kitchen with a saucepan, on my own!
What kind of ridiculous world is this? Surely there’s got to be some kind of service where you can call topless men to kill mice for you? Or even gecko for that matter. Since we are making a list, I need assistance when it comes to spiders, moths, lizards, flys, mosquitos, crickets… basically everything but roaches. Those I can handle – come at me, boy!
Point is… if you know anyone in Sydney who lives +/- one kilometer from Bondi and can handle squeaking creatures (including my delightfully high pitched squeals), for the sake of Tom & Jerry, tell me who they are! Let’s share the wisdom of mice killers, so no girl in Bondi and surrounds ever has to live through the hell Pats and I just did.
Oh, what happened to that mouse, you ask? The bastard went back to where it came from and we blocked his home with sticky white “no more gaps” silicon liquid. Hopefully he’ll warn his friends to stay far away from my abode.
They won’t find cheese here, anyway, us girls are on a strict training plan to lose weight by Christmas. Suck on that, fellas!
Now, GO TO SOMEONE ELSE’S HOUSE, YOU MOUSE!
P.s. Need some advice from a victim of mice-ridden trauma? Whatever you do, DO NOT google ‘mice’, ‘mouse’ or ‘rat’ images. Just don’t do it, okay?