The Guardian Weekend - UK (2021-02-27)

The Guardian Weekend | 27 February 2021 7

Front Tim & Coco

The oldest one is complaining about a mouse that he says lives in
his bedroom.
“It scrabbles about under the fl oorboards,” he says. “It sounds big.”
“There will be more than one,” I say. I don’t know if this is true –
it’s just something I’ve heard people say in similar circumstances,
and I like the way it makes me seem: fatalistic.
“It starts as soon as I turn off the lights,” he says. “It’s impossible
to sleep.”
“I can imagine,” I say, trying to sound sympathetic while
simultaneously thinking: this is so not my problem.
The next day, he raises the subject again.
“I think it gets into that desk thing by the window,” he says, referring to a piece of
furniture that used to be in our old kitchen. “That’s where I heard it last night.”

Adult learner

Coco Khan

“The drawers are full of old seed

packets,” I say. “So yeah, if I were a mouse

I’d be like: jackpot.”

“He does seem excited,” the oldest

one says.

In the afternoon, the oldest one throws

away all the old seeds and hoovers the

drawers, but the mouse returns at night.

“Then the dog comes in and follows it

around above the fl oorboards,” he says.

“I haven’t slept in a week.”

The youngest one walks in to the kitchen.

“What are we talking about?” he says.

“The mouse,” the oldest one says.

“Mice,” I say.

“I heard it messing about in there

yesterday,” says the youngest, pointing to

the cupboard where the boiler is.

“In there?” I say.

“And also in the wall behind my

computer,” he says. I think: wait, this is sort

of my problem.

Sure enough, there are mouse droppings

in the boiler cupboard, and in a hole cut for

the radiator pipes that leads directly to the

fl oorboards under the oldest one’s bed. I

imagine a thriving mouse community going

about its business behind the plaster, with

an occasional member stopping to cock

an ear. “I think I hear someone typing out

there,” he says to a passing cousin. “There

will be more than one,” his cousin says.

I buy a mousetrap for the boiler cupboard

• a plastic box with a little door that’s meant
  to fall shut when the guillotine mechanism
  within is activated. There are instructions
  for dislodging the dead mouse, but
  I imagine most people throw the whole box
  away. That’s certainly my plan.
  One morning, a week later, I am sitting
  in the kitchen with a cup of coff ee when
  I sense motion at the edge of my vision.

I look up to see a tiny mouse emerging from

under the oven.

“Oh my,” I say, for reasons which are not

clear. At the sound of my voice the mouse

disappears back under the oven. I go in

search of the cat, which I fi nd curled in

a ball on the sitting room sofa. Without

moving, it opens one eye to look up at me.

“I was just wondering what time you

start work,” I say. “Some of us are already

hard at it.” The eye shuts.

At about 4 am I am woken by the cat

miaowing up the staircase. The cat does

sometimes demand to be fed in the middle

of the night, but this miaow is diff erent –

it’s more of a sustained yodel. I know from

experience that this doesn’t mean “feed

me”; it means “come and claim your free

gift ”. I pull the duvet over my head.

I forget about this until the next morning,

when I fi nd half a mouse on the kitchen

fl oor – the back half. I suppose this is

marginally preferable to the front half,

staring up at me with that “How bad is it,

Sarge?” look on its face.

“Did I need to see that?” my wife says,

referring to the half-mouse laid out on

kitchen paper that I’m holding

under her nose.

“Just keeping you apprised,” I

say. “Events are moving quickly

now.”

At lunchtime I run across the

oldest one in the kitchen.

“I met some of a friend of yours

this morning,” I say.

“Mum told me,” he says.

“There will be more,” I say,

although I keep hoping there

won’t be, right up until 4 am,

when I hear the cat yodelling in

the dark 

Like the vaccine,

a small nervous

breakdown will

be made available

to everyone in

the pandemic,

it’s just a matter

of when.

I was lucky. After a week of

being kept awake by the little

voice – the one that appears when

you need it least, to tell you all

your fl aws – I was due to exercise

with a friend. I cancelled, telling

her honestly I couldn’t get out

of bed.

“You need a big cry,” she said.

“Take a couple of days, and get it

all out.”

This was not easy advice to take.

I don’t like crying. I recognise

it is healthy and good for other

people, but it’s not for me.

I  easily fall into that familiar

pattern of womanhood where it

is our job to make sure everyone

else is happy (and I imagine that

the sight of me crying into the

kitten, the red, waxy casings of

the mini Babybels I have comfort-

eaten scattered around like

petals at a shrine, is not a

happy- making one. )

My friend gave me a valuable

tip: “Try saying your feelings out

loud – that pushes me into tears.

Or watch It’s A Sin .” Both worked.

After that, it was easy to cry, and

to keep crying.

She was right. A study found

that when we cry we remove the

chemicals that contain stress

hormones , like we do with dust

that irritates our eyes: we wash

it away with our tears. When

people say “ let it out”, it is a

literal, physical act they

are describing.

So I tell myself to no

longer push the sorrow

down. Bring it up as soon as

possible – put the pain in

the wash instead of leaving

it there to stain. Next time

the little voice arrives,

I’ll know just what to

say. “Hello old friend. It’s

time for a bath.”

What’s worse than a mouse problem? Half a mouse

Tim Dowling

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