Last night Leon & I watched “Shaun of the Dead” – again, for me, and first time for him.
An excellent film, funny and slightly disturbing, made all the better by the familiarity of the North London setting. (Including the fact that if I remember rightly, I sat on the same table as Simon Pegg and Nick Frost at a wedding once. Or was that a dream?)
Afterwards, I went upstairs to read in bed, and Leon started getting ready to sleep too. After several minutes peace and quite, I heard him coming upstairs.
“Dad, there’s a mouse bumping around in the kitchen. I think it’s caught in one the traps.”
We have a 19th century house and no cat. Of course we have mice occasionally. They seem to get in one at a time, and plague us for a while until one of the traps, or a neighbour’s cat in the lane, gets them.
This one had got its tail stuck in a glue trap and was running around squeaking a lot. I hate killing things, but I also hate sharing my kitchen with rodents, and this one clearly needed putting out of its distress quickly. Lacking a cricket bat, I whacked it with a mop. I missed twice, then got it, then had to restrain myself from carrying on whacking in Shaun-inspired zombie-killing fever.
I swept it up and put it in the bin. A disturbing evening. I should have gone to the pub