Every night I hear the little bastard scurry its way into the loft, just after midnight, and sound like it's going for gold above me. The Mo Farah of mice, it is sprinting about in my fucking loft. AIBU to be a teeny tiny bit hopeful that one of these nights it falls off the fucking roof?
It's bad enough that I once accidentally hoovered one of the fuckers up (it was already dead...it ruined my Henry!), but the thought of it falling through the ceiling as I lie here in bed makes me ill.