2003-08-07 at 8:24 p.m.

1am is certainly a time for drunken encounters.

Come on guys, back me up here. 1am is the time when you're just drunk enough to think you're the wittiest, sexiest thing on the planet, with a singing voice like an angel and the dancing panache of Michael Flatley. So you sing 'Blondie' songs at the top of your voice and dance like an octopus connected to a 40,000 volt generator, proposition strangers at the bar and tell all your friends that 'I love you, mate. I really do'. And the next day you remember all this and give yourself an open-palmed smack to the forehead, worsening the hangover and jolting loose the memory of uncontrollably throwing up into your neighbour's gardenias.

Last night, I had a drunken 1am encounter of a different sort.

Picture me, if you will, walking (well, lurching very slightly) into the kitchen, and flicking on the light. Picture, if you will, a small grey mouse that had, until that moment, been gorging itself on my bread (well, my flatmate's bread) turn in my direction with such alacrity that it looked like a small, furry spinning top.

I looked at the mouse.

The mouse looked at me.

This continued for several more seconds.

The cutesy, feminine part of my psyche that I so desperately refuse to acknowledge, piped up at this point. "Oh, look at the widdle mousie!" it said. "Look at it's widdle tail! Oh, it's so cute!"

"Shut up, cutesy, feminine part of my psyche!" the rest of my brain screamed. "That thing is eating our food! Food we could, conceivably, be eating right now, but now we can't!"

The mouse and I continued to stare at each other for a couple more seconds.

It was then that I realised that I could grab the mouse, if I was quick enough. It was sitting inside the breadbag, and all I'd have to do is quickly pull it shut. Then I'd have the bastard!

"Wait a second" said the logical part of my brain, who had taken over since the cutesy, feminine part had gone off to sulk in the hypothalamus. "When we close the bag, that mouse is going to try to bite us, isn't it?"

"Good point", said the rest of my brain, which was still fuming quietly about the spoiled food. "Look- there's some rubber gloves near the sink. Put them on before you grab the bag, and the little sod won't be able to bite you!"

Very slowly, I began to edge toward the sink, and, eyes never leaving the rodent interloper, grabbed a glove.

The left one.

"Bugger!" I whispered, groping for the right glove.

Which promptly fell to the floor.

"Bugger!" I whispered, somewhat more loudly, and began to bend down to retrieve it.

It was at around this point that the mouse realised (or at least had a sneaking suspicion of) what I was up to. Quick as a flash, it leapt to the floor, dashed across the linoleum and skidded under the fridge!

"NO! GET BACK HERE, YOU ROTTEN SODDING LITTLE BREAD-EATING BASTARD!" I yelled, stamping repeatedly around the fridge like a wounded bull elephant. But the mouse had tucked itself away under the fridge, and sure as heck wasn't coming out anytime soon.

Bastard.

So, I decided to set some mousetraps.

In my decidedly drunken state.

Now, if life were a cartoon, this situation would have made for slapstick comedy gold. There would be repeated sounds of *snap* YEOOOW!, and quite possibly a cameo by that kangaroo that all the Warner Bros characters assume is a giant mouse. As it was, I managed to set two traps quite successfully. While drunk! Never have I been more proud. (Well, except for that time I showered myself while drunk and didn't remember doing it, but that's another story).

Sadly, the mouse has not wandered into one of the traps. So I've gone and bought myself some rat poison instead.

No more Miss Nice Girl. Nothing eats my bread (well, my flatmate's bread) and gets away with it.

No matter how cute it's widdle tail is.