(This is not a euphemism.)
Somebody once suggested that it was necessary to have a man around to catch and dispose of all the mice that my cat keeps bringing into the house and, judging by the amount of screaming daughters and I do when this happens, most people would agree.
However, I was relocating my own mice long before BF was on the scene and if I now choose to sink back gracefully and adopt the role of swooning southern belle, with relief, it is merely a lifestyle choice.
Tonight the damn cat brought another mouse into the house and discarded it in the bathroom. She obviously hadn’t played much with it because it was fairly feisty and I didn’t realise that mice could be that athletic.
I have to say that I did my fair share of screaming tonight but in my defence, I would like to point out that it was late, I was clad en deshabille, jumping mice can reach surprising heights and the surprise factor is greatly enhanced when you are without panties!
Being hit in the nethers by a mouse immediately reduces the charity you feel towards it and, instead of gently placing it in a secure outside position where it might recover from shock, I tossed it over the neighbour’s fence and wished it good luck in midhurl.
So, no mouse chaser and men are still not necessary in my household, thank you very much.