On mice.

So, mice.

Well - A mouse, at least.  Although there are probably more; as Husband said recently, they tend not to live alone.

Mice are one of the perils of living in our terrace of older houses; they probably pop in and out of numbers 1 through 6 with impunity, picking up a few grains or rice here, some crumbs of bread there, some spilled sugar somewhere else.  Admittedly I've not seen any recently, but I'm all too aware that doesn't mean we don't actually have any, despite the electronic thingamijigs we've plugged into the wall at various points and which supposedly emit a pulse that they don't like too much. (If they are here, do the mice in our terrace don little ear defenders before venturing into our house, perhaps? I wonder...).

I'm not sure why I'm so convinced there are mice in residence at our address, but for some reason I'm constantly on the alert for that unsettling little shadow moving swiftly down the edge of my peripheral vision.  The last time we saw them was back during The Big Cold of February.  It necessitated my unearthing of our humane mouse traps; you know, the ones that don't actually break their necks but which trap them in a dark tunnel of plastic until they are humanely released into the wild by the wuss (me and my boys) who has decided that leaving them to freeze to death at the bottom of the garden in minus 6degC and half a foot of snow is kinder than ending their life with one swift blow.  Actually, I knew it wasn't kinder; I just couldn't face clearing up the mess that the alternative would result in.

In any case, we set the traps.  Days passed before any of the doors dropped shut, to the extent that we began to wonder if perhaps the mice had upped and moved on.  Eventually, however, we struck lucky and came down one morning to find one of the traps had been triggered.  Boy #1 (now 14) gingerly picked it up.

'I think there's something in there, Mum."

'You think?  Well I'm not touching it.  What do you reckon; is there or isn't there one inside?'

'There definitely is.'  He sort of waved it around a bit.  'I think it's heavier.  Shall I check?'

'If you must. Be careful.  OR, you could put your boots on and just go and check outside...'

'No, it's too cold out there. I'll do it here.'

Carefully, he unhooked the door.

When I was a kid, there was a roller coaster at Blackpool called The Wild Mouse.  Whilst the drops weren't particularly high, it was one of the scariest rides I ever went on because of the speeds that the cars would run at, and the sudden twists and turns the track took.

You can guess what happened next in our kitchen, I think.  Boy #1 levered the door open and as he did so a limber and quite formidable mouse - perhaps an Alpha Mouse - grabbed it's chance and literally flung itself out of the top of the tube.  Catapulting to the floor amidst a chorus of screams and squeals from it's unprepared captors, it made a break for freedom and escaped back under the cooker, never to be seen again.  In my defence, who knew that mice had such mad skillz in the climbing up the inside of plastic tubes department?

Actually, now that I write it down, of course they do, but still; it was cold, dark outside, and we hadn't yet had breakfast...

Shortly after that, we got The Dog.  I'm told that owning one can actually increase the possibility of having mice; something to do with the fact that their food bowls are on the floor, resulting in free meals for rodents.  However, since we got a Labrador, one of Nature's most effective eating machines - thank goodness the pattern on the kitchen floor tiles is part of the moulding rather than printed on - there's literally nothing left for any mice to eat.

I think we're good - but I'm still on the alert for that little black shadow in the corner of my vision...

Of mice and AI

I just spotted something small, brown and furry emerging from under one of the kitchen cabinets.  Now, I've been here before.  I have form in this area, but not for some time now have I had the fun of dealing with unwanted household visitors.  As I sit here typing my feet are on high alert (who knows when I may need to stand on a chair whilst I assess the situation at the top of my voice?), with a weather eye on the gap between the dishwasher and the cupboard, that it used as an escape route.

I'm kidding myself that it was temporary incursion made through the kitchen door left open into the garden all morning, and also hoping that my initial impression from the fleeting glimpse I caught of the creature - that it was a shrew, rather than a mouse - was correct.  I'm not sure why, but a shrew in the house seems far less concerning to me than a mouse, which is ridiculous, really, because both are rodents and both are unwelcome; it's just a matter of semantics, really.

Whilst I wait for the fugitive to show itself, I'm taking my mind off it with some displacement activity; namely that of today's rant.

As an aside here, I do find this whole getting older thing makes me far more sensitive to - and crosser about - things that in the past I would yes, have noticed, but probably shrugged off as just part of life's rich tapestry.  Hormones, eh?

In any case, the subject of today's mini rant is Alexa, Amazon's cloud-based home management system.

Tell me please: why is Alexa a woman?  Or more specifically, since I'm sure there are options to customise the system and have an 'Alex' rather than an 'Alexa', why is the one featured on all the advertising a woman?

Because I don't know about you but I am sick to the back teeth of being the go-to person in this house for just about any query regarding home administration, especially when the person asking the question has usually not even bothered to raise their eyes from whichever screen they're watching to try and locate the information themselves.

As a feminist (a label I'm proud of by the way; more of that in another rant in the not too distant future), I'm trying to raise my sons to make no assumptions that it will be the woman of the house who will sort home-based admin problems out for them.  Yet on every side they are confronted with images that tell them no, your mother's wrong; no matter how much she may try to encourage you to adopt a non-sexist approach as you deal with life, it IS a woman who is going to run things for you.  And here, on the tv and radio is Alexa, an early version of AI - complete with female voice -  to underline that fact.

I can't be the only woman to be annoyed by this, surely?

Of Mice and Boys

A lot has happened over the last couple of days. A LOT. Where to start?

First off - the Mouse is back, dammit. After lying low for a couple of months (aka; being smart enough not to be spotted but still having free run of the place when my back was turned or I didn't have my contacts in), it declared itself this morning when I got back from the gym. Boy #2, having been left with his father for the incredibly long hour and a half that I was away, was tearing the place up with gay abandon as I walked through the front door. The Mouse, clearly having had enough of the madness, was throwing itself physically against the shut kitchen door in an attempt to make a getaway under the kitchen cabinets.

A Mummy made of sterner stuff than I would have dealt with it on the spot, but not I. Oh no. What did I do? I politely opened the door so it could dash for it's escape hatch and resolved that Husband can deal with it this evening. I hope it likes tuna. That's what the trap will be baited with...

Secondly, Boy #1 had his first school assembly. They're held every Wednesday and parents are always welcome but since his timetable precludes his attending we haven't been before now. Yesterday, however, he had an award to collect (along with most of his year), so the Potty Family pulled on their best bib and tucker (clean jeans, in my case), packed my handbag with bribes to control Boy #2, and trundled along to watch Boy #1 collect his certificate. It was a surreal experience, and made my experiences from last September seem an awfully long time ago.

Along with the rest of his class he trotted happily up onto the stage and was applauded by the whole school and various parents. He seemed so grown up - and yet not. He's still small enough for me to gather close (it's getting harder and more uncomfortable, but I do it whenever I get the chance, remembering countless pieces of advice to make the most of these moments because they won't last), but I'm starting to get flashes of what he might become - given fair weather and a following wind.

Yesterday evening I went into my sons' room and watched them for while as they slept. As a parent, it's such a priviledge to be able to do that; to watch their features in repose. I often find myself thinking that if I could curl up on a mattress on their bedroom floor then that would be true luxury. Forget fancy holidays and jewellery; sleeping next to my children would be enough.

Never going to happen though. Because then, before I get carried away, I remember the Mouse. And immediately, the prospect of sleeping on the floor becomes impossible.

Drat that rodent.


I was also going to post about our fun and games at the hospital this afternoon when both boys had scratch tests to check on their allergies, and follow that up with a review of the Disney movie that we watched subsequently to calm one of them down (no prizes for guessing which), but I'm out of time. It's the last episode ever EVER of ER this evening.

The phone is coming off the hook.