We have a furry passenger aboard. An unwelcome, unwanted furry passenger….a bloody mouse. And I think I brought him aboard.
Two days ago I took a bag of laundry to the launderette in Crosshaven. I collected the clothes that evening, went back to the boat and put everything away. When I’d finished the bag felt like it still had a pair of the kid’s socks inside, just that very slight, almost imperceptible weight. I looked inside but didn’t see anything. Later, as I wrote my blog I heard what I thought was a rustling of the cornflakes pack. Tentatively, I took a peek, but saw nothing. The rustling continued. I woke Julian up…. he wasn’t happy… but he convinced me I was hearing things. I woke him a second time and this time he got up, investigated the food boxes, went outside, and returned to tell me it was the electrical cable. So that was that…. my paranoia.
The next morning we prepared for a passage from Cork to the Isles of Scilly. Julian and Katie went out to buy milk while Lily stayed with me to help prepare food. I sent her to the quarter berth to get various items…. not because I am so cowardly that I would send my 3 year old daughter in to face a possible rodent you understand. She brought out various pieces of food that had obviously been nibbled by a mouse. Thankfully not by a rat.
I phoned Julian. “Buy some mouse traps before you get home”. He was standing beside the boat when I phoned and he sent me off with the girls, while he entered into battle, a plastic bucket in one hand, his jumper in the other, like a modern day Captain Ahab in search of the elusive whale. And like Ahab, when one method failed, he doggedly persevered… he bought traps.
I realised then that I had brought our little Moby Mouse home with the laundry. And how his little eyes must have shone with delight when he peeked out of the empty laundry bag to find himself on top of three boxes of food. A veritable smorgasbord of mousey delicacies. But then pity his little land lubber legs when we set sail yesterday on a trip that went on and on and on. Oh the sea sickness endured by little Moby, the rocking, the noise of the sea slapping against the hull.
Julian is setting the traps as I write this.