Published in On Our Selection News February 20, 2014

Winter is coming, and so are the mice.

I was thinking only last night that Winter beckons. And I fear that, living across the road from a big paddock, we are overdue for a good old fashioned Winter mouse plague. Then earlier this morning, I overheard “I saw a mouse!”at morning tea. This was quickly corrected as “I bit my mouth!” when my ears pricked up, because it’s a well documented fact that I don’t enjoy the presence of mice in the world.

I’m currently writing this with my legs crossed in my chair, high off the ground. As a girl, I reserve the right to be a little squeamish when it comes to rodents. It’s something my suffragette sisters would agree with – maybe? They actually probably couldn’t give a rat’s (see what I did there?!) and continued raising hell regardless of the presence of tiny mammals. And while I enjoy wearing pants, voting and the illusion of having control over my uterus, I retain the right to be frightened of mice. My fear of the scuttling creatures goes beyond culturally ingrained characteristics.

At some point in my primary school’s history, some thrifty P&C member acquired offcuts of Astroturf for kids sit on at lunch time. Said grassy fabrics were kept rolled up in an old store room underneath the school building, which was known for mice infestations. One day at Little Lunch, my friends and I took a mat, rolled it out and sat down. What we didn’t know was that the fake grass had a mouse inside, which freaked out and started scampering around once his cover was blown.This caused mass hysteria. The tiny creature darted about, looking for a safe, dark cave in which it could hide from the pre-pubescent girls in unflattering puffy shirts and culottes flapping about like they were being tasered while wearing rollerblades. After a few panicked, squeal-filled seconds, the mouse was out of sight. Confusion sunk in. There was suspicious calm, and tense side glances. We may not have been old enough that multiple side buns weren’t cool, but we knew that the mouse was not done yet.

Then it hit me.That mouse had found it’s safe, dark cave.There was a mouse in my culottes. I could feel its little claws, and dirty furry skin and filthy tail. I felt it panic as it realised that it made a huge mistake. And after vigorously shaking my lower half, I felt the mouse scamper down my leg. I stood shocked and shivering – all I could do was cry. I can’t clearly remember what happened next, but I do know that I was ushered into the staff room to continue my mental breakdown. Not content with destroying my spirit, the mouse also ran through my lunchbox – meaning my lunch was ruined forever, just as I was.

And while I got replacement food, the mouse had done it’s damage. Sure, I put on a brave face and even laughed along as my awful, awful schoolmates sang “Hickory Dickory Dock” to me, but my damaged psyche could not be fixed with a ham sandwich. Seeing a mouse sparks intense fear, which pulsates through my body and forces me to embrace my animal instincts and get to higher ground. And I think I’ve earned that right. My colleagues may think it’s irrational, but, as the saying goes, “Don’t judge someone until you’ve shaken a mouse out of their culottes.”