“Don’t tell them about the mice” says Herself the other night.
“What the fuck are you on about woman? Who? What mice?” I replied.
“On that web thing of yours. Don’t tell them about the mice.”
“But there are no mice that I can tell them about?”
“I know that and you know that, but we don’t want people thinking we have mice in the house.”
“What does it matter what people think?”
“If people think we have mice in the house, they will think we are dirty and don’t clean properly.”
“For fuck’s sake! I couldn’t give a shite what people think about us, or our house. If they think we are dirty then it’s no skin off my nose. Anyway, mice will come into a house because it is comfortable, and there might be a bit of food around. It has nothing to do with dirt. I don’t know what you are on about because I haven’t seen a mouse around here for months.”
“Look” says she, “I just don’t want people getting the impression that we have mice around the place. OK?”
“You promise you won’t mention the mice?”
“Or the spiders?”
“Or the rat?”
“I promise not to mention the mice or any of the others.”
It’s a pity about that promise.
There’s a rather cute little fella sitting on the window sill watching me type this.
But I can’t tell you about it.