Mice

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My mum and I lived in a cottage about half an hour outside town.

It hadn’t been easy finding a home that met all our requirements: in the country, no neighbours, three bedrooms, front and back gardens; a property that was old (it had to have character) but at the same time had all the mod cons — a modern central heating system was essential, as we both hated to be cold. It had to be quiet. It had to be private. We were mice, after all. We weren’t looking for a home. We were looking for a place to hide.

We viewed scores of properties with the agent, but if we could make out a neighbour’s roof through the trees or hear the drone of traffic in the distance, we’d exchange a subtle glance that struck it off our list. We’d still go through with the visit, of course, patiently listening as the obvious was explained: This is the main bedroom — this is another bedroom — this is the bathroom. We would have felt it was somehow rude not to after the agent had driven us so far out into the country, and Mum could as soon have asserted herself over the cocky young man with his gelled hair and constantly trilling mobile phone (We’ve seen enough, thank you, Darren, we’re not interested), as fly to the moon. Mice are never rude. Mice are never assertive. And so we spent many Saturdays being shown around properties in which we had no interest whatsoever.

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