I am stranded in my bedroom while a teeny little mouse runs riot downstairs.
There I was minding my own business, feasting on a plateful of serrano and salami, and worrying about little Ray on The X-Factor, when out the corner of my eye I saw a titchy witchy little field mouse run behind the book case. I swear I nearly choked.
So in a very girly fashion I put in a distress call to John from next door but one, who came running in, armed himself with Finley's light sabre and danced about on tip toe, plainly more scared than I will ever be.
So I stood on the sofa crying laughing while he performed a variety of impressive ninja style antics on a piece of string that had got caught in the bottom of his jeans, and then he did a whole lot of furniture removal, emptied a bell jar full of linen, set up a makeshift trap and abandoned me to deal with the little critter all on my lonesome.
It’s not like I’m scared. I just don’t want anything uninvited crawling around under my duvet. Do mice climb stairs? Will he make a nest in my frizzy hair? Has he brought Mummy Mouse, Brother Mouse and all his friends from the mouse pub with him? Or has the little blighter run away from home and discovered the delights of my little house and the odd abandoned raisin? Will I have to set a place for him at the table??
Tell a lie. I’m not scared, I’m frightened out of my wits. I blame the Christmas tree. I bet I carried the little nightmare in myself.
Housekeepers, the time has come: I need to borrow a husband. Please send a big, burly one round as soon as possible or it will have to be gin and Valium to see me through the night.
Somebody knock me out.