“I’ve got a MOUSE,” came the cry down the phone.

Well, we all knew what THAT meant. My mother is TERRIFIED of mice. It was all hands to the deck! Or the kitchen, dining room bedroom, and loft should I say!

“Where is it?” I inquired.

“EVERYWHERE,” came back the reply.

I did fleetingly wonder how one mouse could be everywhere, but I know my mother well, and she was obviously thinking of his sisters, brothers, aunts and uncles, cousins, parents, grandparents, the LOT!

“I’ll get you a mouse man,” I said.

“Well make sure it’s a GOOD one,” she said, “The last one was useless.”

So then began the saga.

“I need to go up in your loft but I haven’t got my ladders with me,” the first one said. “And I’ve got a gammy leg anyway. I’ll have to get my nephew to come back with me.”

He never came back!

“I’ll have to take your kick boards off in the kitchen,” the second one said.”

“No you won’t,” my mother said. “I’m proud of my kitchen.”

She was too – it was her first ever new kitchen and she was 92. Can’t say I blamed her really, but a mouse man has to do what a mouse man has to do. She insisted he couldn’t. He left. Never to return.

“I’ll bash ‘em on the head if I see ‘em,” my mother said. “Your father used to do that.” He did too, with a spade!

And so it went on. Mousey was still firmly established in the KITCHEN. Leaving his trade mark everywhere. And by now, he had a name – George.

“How’s Mother?” I asked my sister one day. Hardly daring to listen to the answer.

“Oh, she’s mad,” my sister said.

“Why?” I said.

“Because of George.”

“Oh, has she got fire coming out of her nostrils now then?”

It was a standing joke in the family. My father used to call her “The Dragon.” And with good reason.

“I’m having our house blessed,” I told my mother one day. Our local priest had offered to bless people’s houses for then if they wanted him to. Well, it couldn’t do any harm, I thought. There were a few queer noises coming from the airing cupboard at night.

“Can he come and bless mine?” my mother said.

“Well he might, but if he does he will have blessed George as well,, and so he’ll be Saint George then and you’ll not be allowed to kill him.”

“Oh,” said my mother.

She was getting more and more agitated about George and all the other possible Georges.

“I always knew it would be mice that would kill me,” she said weakly one day. Her face was rather pale.

I couldn’t resist saying to my sister,

“Well, St. George DID slay the Dragon.”

11 thoughts on “A MOUSE CALLED ST. GEORGE

  1. blindzanygirl

    Lol Gary. The story is a solutely true. I could write MANY a funny story about my mum and the goings on in her house lol.


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