A mouse in the house

In my house.... in my piano, to be precise. It seems that the rainy weather has driven a little hikmeeya into the house. Barely the length of my little finger (not counting the tail) he scurries frantically behind the ornate carvings of the ancient instrument... and in the dark of the night, I hear little chitterings, and an occasional twang - and make a mental note to call the piano tuning chap.

The piano is over a hundred years old. My grandma bought it from her neighbour Phoebe, who had inherited it from a grand aunt. It's an upright model, made of carved ebony and once had an ivory keyboard. this was removed by an overzealous piano tuner who replaced it with cheap plastic keys because "the old keys are badly stained, madam". I'm sure he made a tidy profit from the whole deal... My mum says to look at the bright side - at least we're not playing baila on what is effectively a murdered elephant!

I have wrestled successfully with the urge to play a few crashing chords and scare the daylights out of the little guy who has made it his home... and that's the very thing that stops me... he's such a little guy. Unlike the Maradana rats that frequent the hospital, the ones that send the moggies running for cover.

Besides, he's a sociable little fellow... even in mid scurry he would turn and look at me with shiny, beady eyes. And when I shone a torch behind the piano, instead of cowering in the shadows, he stuck his little head out and stared at me, blinking owlishly in the glare.

Ah well... live and let live, I guess!