Of Mice and Men

The continuing struggle between the common house mouse and the common Essex dweller has been occupying me for days. Mus musculus has obviously been enjoying the fruits of my table for some time, and has used his loins to ensure his fruits do so to. I have fought back with Agent Orange for Meeces, a bait recommended by Mr Jinks, that they eat and from which they expire. I am told that one will then find them from the smell. I spend most days sniffing from skirting to ceiling, but nary a trace of a dead'un have I found.

Good job I have not yet started the shawarma restaurant that was to have been my saving grace. Even kebab houses have their standards, and smell is likely to be one of the first problems given that I don't yet have an alcohol licence in my caff. If it was in the Gulf it wouldn't have an alcohol licence either, nor would many of its customers reek of said substance. I'm not sure about the smell quotient relating to sales figures in the Gulf: they appear to tolerate just about anything while buying their own dinners at Maccy D's. Those who still reckon the doner kebab to be the pinnacle of a Friday night ought to try a proper shawarma, which would truly get you instant karma.

I plan to spend even more British Gilts in the middle eastern economy in an attempt to hound that wolf from my door. Much work to do, many contacts to remake, and a deal of self-belief to be re-engendered.

Given that the mice have eaten my daily bread I need to replenish it. Men would till the fields and reap the corn, only to have the bloody mice eat it all again. I am going back to the desert. Burns wrote truly that the best laid plans gang aft agley, but I am determined to be more of a man than a mouse this time.