Mice that is. Apparently this is the case if you live in San Francisco. My mouse now has celebrity status and I am receiving advice from all over the place - thanks to Facebook and Twitter. An ex has offered, not entirely seriously, the services of his cat. Not entirely seriously because the cat is based in St Paul, Minnesota. This morning, in the schoolyard, a formerly thought of as mild-mannered dad starting discussing traps which break mouse necks in a rather blood-thirsty way. There appears to be consensus on peanut butter if not trap types - we have a selection currently not doing their job at home, and I think more may be added soon.
I can tell you this though. I have had mice in my house before. Mice who did want to be there in London and who left horrible droppings and ate things. Mice who didn't want to be there in Wales but had been released into captivity from the wild by our easily-distracted cat, Archie. But this mouse is a puzzle. It can't reach any food in our house as it is all kept in wall-mounted cupboards or the fridge. There is no sign of droppings. There is just this cheeky mouse, who comes out and wanders around the kitchen and then buggers off again. It has even popped into my bedroom to have a look at me before leaving on its wanderings again.