Which has absolutely nothing to do with the Emeric Pressberger book, or the civil war, but really deals with killing a mouse on Sunday... or at least catching one. After my serious brain overheating the last while I decided a little lie down somewhere was called for just after lunch (how I would have despised myself, twenty years ago. Boring old fart, there is so much world out there and no time for sleep... yeah well. Time moves on. I thought I'd be dead by now. Perhaps I am.) I lay down, covered my eyes with a pillow (I'm light sensitive, and light wakes me. So it made perfect sense to go and live further South than KZN - to where the summer days are VERY LONG...)
And as I was entering the hallowed halls of Morpheus, a little something nuzzled my ear. Now, sadly, it's been a long time since since Barbs just slipped into bed and nuzzled my ear. Really, it's the sort of surprise that makes a bloke smile... possibly less so when the whiskers tickled and I realised this was a rodent, rather than the girl of my dreams. I sat up a trifle abruptly, which must have hurt the mouse's feelings as it vanished down the back of the bed. I was now thoroughly awake so I pulled mattress aside in time to watch one brown mouse zip down the back and under the bed. It left me a mouse-token on the pillow to show just how much it cared.
At this point I attempted to introduce a cat to the mouse thinking this would be relationship made in heaven, as I was fairly sure that was how the mouse got in in the first place. They bring them in to play with, and leave the bits where you can stand them when going to 'loo if you are foolish enough not to turn a light on.
Unfortunately the only cat present was Robin who was sure I had disturbed her beauty sleep for some nefarious and cruel purpose. So I went and fetched a sleeping Duchess. She stalked off in high dudgeon. How dare the staff disturb her rest? She only catches mice when it suits her. At this point Barbs got in on the act and we spent the next twenty minutes moving furniture, assisted by Batman. Who had the mouse run over his feet. We couldn't expect him to catch mice while he was helping us by getting underfoot and sitting in open drawers? Eventually, at about the 300th try, by now no longer caring if the little beast bit me, so long as I could stop the furniture mazurka, I managed to grab it, and a warm, tiny body in hand I took out and flung it as far possible. The dogs gave chase...
So next time I know who to call.