Monday, 10 October 2016


MouseGate continues to cause havoc in the bedroom, with new heights of scratching, slapping and knocking being achieved.  Not by whatever rodent is up there, but by the husband, in an attempt to 'drive the bloody thing further down the attic so that he is above one of the other bedrooms'. 

This comes with its own problems though.  Firstly, he is now waking me up with this crazy banging of the walls and ceiling.  I had managed to block out the noise coming from the attic, but when the husband springs out of bed, muttering some rich expletive, all of a sudden, I am wide awake.  Once his banging and knocking is done, it's back into bed he gets, falling asleep within eight seconds.  I, on the other hand, don't, and it's usually about thirty seconds, before the mouse, having stopped laughing and flicking the bird at the husband through the ceiling, returns, the short break giving him a chance to muster up some hard core strength for the next scratching session.  Maybe the mouse has friends, and they are doing a Zumba class?  Having said that, the noise would be more in keeping with a Michael Ratly (sorry, that pun is unforgiveable) Riverdance...with clogs on naturally.

So rather than this waking the husband again, I have started breathing very heavily in his ear, hoping to mask the ceiling noise until he's in a very deep sleep.  Then I lie there listening to it, hoping that the mouse won't gnaw through my ceiling and land on top of me.  But the bigger problem is that if the husband's Rawhide impersonation works too well, daughter number one could find herself being drawn into the nocturnal shenanigans, and that won't be good.  She is afraid of anything smaller than a kitten and with more than four legs, and it wouldn't be long before my sleep would be interrupted with wails of 'Dad!  Quick!'

Back to yesterday then.  The husband left me, choosing to spend the day with Mr H.  He is married to Mrs H - the Italian lady with a penchant for Patrick Dempsey (See 'Touch of Grey').  The two men loaded up their bikes on the back of the car very early yesterday morning, and drove to Wales to go for a bike ride.  Now forgive me for stating the blinking obvious, but surely it might have been easier to not drive anywhere, but simply go for a longer bike ride locally?  Perhaps he is longing for those bloody Welsh Cakes again, and can't see any other way of getting them.  I'll have to tell him that Waitrose sell them.  That will cheer him up I expect..

I forgot to mention yesterday that Saturday was daughter number one's birthday.  She has now nudged over into the X Factor category of the Over 25's, as it was so kindly pointed out by one of her brothers last week.  The trouble is, when you get to my age, anything under thirty five sounds young, so she has got a way to go until she is in that dreadful thing called 'Middle Aged'.  I haven't reached that stage yet, as I plan to live to be at least 120.  When the bus pass is approved in a few years' time, I will then consider myself middle aged, and not before.

 Going back to daughter number one, she had a bit of a result on her birthday, as the barman refused to serve her until he'd seen her ID.  It made her day.  I was never asked for my ID when I was younger.  I'm more looking forward to it at the other end actually.  When I am trundling around the towns and villages courtesy of my bus pass, I am hoping that the bus drivers will ask to see my ID, as they won't believe that I am 65.

Now that is something to look forward to, isn't it?

However, coming along for the bus ride will be varicose veins, arthritis, ugly shoes and a pastel coloured mac.

So just when you think it's all going well, good Old Mother Nature hits you with a swerve ball.  Actually, when I think about it, I reckon Mother Nature is in fact a bloke.

No woman would be that vindictive...
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