fun at first but then it gets a bit sad

That seems to be the general gist of all facets of everything. Minus the blip last week where I wanted to sit on mr. grumps Branson until he agreed to be a nice boy again. He had a staycation and evidently didn't enjoy his own company. Force to be reckoned with considering we never really argue, I could have bitch slapped him last Friday. But I was mature and stuff and told him to start being nice. He was in a fine enough mood by Saturday, and he bought me flowers on Sunday which was all very lovely.

One unfun thing happened which was mouse murder. We've had the little blighter in our lives for quite a few weeks, and he only pops out if it's perfectly silent, or if I'm on the sofa, minding my own business and he feels like scaring the shit out of me. Finally it was an 'us or him' situation; breaking point. Whilst trying to watch the Wire, mousey came squirming out of his gap under the stove and darted behind our sofa (which up until that moment, we hadn't realised he was running behind there). Chris thought he had trapped him against the back wall of the flat using our sofa, side table and chair as blocades. I was essentially marooned on the sofa for fear of mousey shooting up my leg. Tricky bastard however shoved himself into a a crack between our baseboard and wall and took off (after about an hour of Chris, mop in hand fiddling around, basically I just wanted to watch the Wire). Then the little shit was seen zipping through our kitchen on the countertop which is clearly disgusting. Chris speeds over trapping him with bottles of olive oil and cereal boxes. And because this mousey has evading our sticky traps and poison baits, Chris thought it would be genius to have one escape route from this makeshift kitchen fortress and force him onto one, however this is the smartest mouse in all of London; mice have obviously evolved here quickly since the Industrial Revolution and can easily outwit two chumps such as us. So he figures out there's a nonstick strip on the trap and runs up that and behind the sofa again, except this time, this time we've blocked off the crack with newspaper and there's no escape for our bright young thing. Chris has now gone primal, wearing rubber gloves, running around, saying 'little shithead' over and over and over again. Then drops a sticky trap down along our back wall until finally, after I have now been sitting panicked on the sofa for over an hour hear the horrid squeals of success. Poor mousey finally stuck and got his poor little legs all twisted.

He kept squeaking until Chris put a tupperware container over him and he found solace in the dark. I'm now crying because it's terrible and heartbreaking and I leave mr grumps to do the dirty work whilst I literally go in the bedroom and hide under the covers. Now if you'd like to hear the rest of the story I can tell it but it's terribly inhumane and Chris and I have been emailing back and forth how disgusted we feel with ourselves and the guilt that's churning in our stomachs. But I must remind you that this was psychological warfare. This mouse hadn't eaten any poison (even with bits of chocolate dumped in it, which by the way, we found pieces of under our sofa), avoiding sticky traps that were set up by his favourite running points. And he managed to avoid Chris' trappings twice in one evening.

So that's not fun at all. But we're doing a massively flat blitz on Saturday which is of course, always fun.