We have mice. I’ve been staying the past week at Kay Road with Olly, Lorna, Sam & Gavin, - bless their cotton socks - but with one extra person and many more rodents in the house it’s making for a tight squeeze. It also means that I have to sleep on the tiny sofa instead of making a bed on the floor. Being a strapping lad I’m not afraid of mice running over me - no, no, no - it’s that these particular mice have an odd suicidal streak. The other night we were sprawled around the lounge watching a movie when Lorna made the discovery that she’d rolled onto a mouse and squashed it. Lorna then emitted what can only be described as a high pitched mouse-like squeal – perhaps trying to resuscitate the dead animal by calling to it in its own tongue. Quick on the defence I jumped up onto the arm of the sofa to gain a vantage point in case any other kamikaze wildlife decided to act. Fearless I am.

There seems to be no explanation for the frequent rodent casualties except that they have contracted an awful disease (that will, undoubtedly, get passed on to us) or that they suffer from an acute form of depression. Only yesterday a mouse crawled into the middle of the kitchen and died spectacularly. Needless to say I’m checking daily for boils.

Last night, to pay for my board and to cleanse a small portion of the house from the imminent plague I announced I was going to clean the bathroom. The news was greeted, if not unkindly, then with slight scepticism. So, with bathroom gel, pink rubber gloves, bleach and cloth I marched upstairs. I have just one thing to say about my genes; I sure know how to clean. Granted, I hardly ever use this gift but when I do it's like unleashing a latent superpower.

An hour later I emerged from the bathroom with ruddy cheeks and a fragrant lemon smell. Sam was walking up the stairs.

“Have you been in there all this time? I’d forgotten you were in the house.”

“Cleaning” I said slightly out of breath, nodding towards the bathroom which now had an unworldly glow.

Over the next few hours I received several visits from Olly, a new found respect in his voice.

“Bloody hell, you even cleaned the toilet brush holder!”

I nodded virtuously as a dark brown mouse; the size of my thumb ran drunkenly through the living room and out into the hall.

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