An Irishwoman's Diary

All that rain, all that darkness. What a dreary winter. It was 4.30 a.m. and rain was bouncing off the rattling windows. Nicely on cue to add to the misery of the coming morning came the hailstones.

On the front page of the Irish Field were details of the record 1.8 million guineas sale at Newmarket of a young filly foal with exalted parentage - by Giant's Causeway out of the Arc de Triomphe winner Urban Sea. "Wow," I said to no one in particular, raising my head in time to watch a mouse saunter across my venerable patchwork quilt.

Saunter, not scamper. There was an arrogance about this mouse, an arrogance that says a great deal about our changing society. Not only did the mouse decide I was not a worthy object of fear or, as in the past, respect; it also ignored the dog reclining on the bed. As for the two cats - irrelevancies.

Admittedly the cats were under the blankets and the dog is a known pacifist. But to have got as far as this upstairs bedroom, the mouse would have also passed five other dogs, lounging in various states of repose about the house. Attitudes have changed in the mouse world. The mus musculus domesticus now sees itself as a lawful occupant, no longer a furtive squatter.

Pretty creature

I know a lot about mice. I never had a pet one, and see no appeal in those cissy looking white ones with red eyes, but the standard mouse is a sweet little creature - dirty, untidy, cavalier in its toilet habits, and given to random chewing of wires and books, but very pretty .

So far this winter, I've had mice in my boots, some new-borns in my car, a particularly tragic little drowning victim in an unattended hot bath, one trapped on an outside window-sill, another in a wardrobe.

Nala, one of our cats, is now four years old. For her first two years, she wasn't interested in mice. It didn't matter; I'm the mouse person. But last year, she started to kill them. She announced each murder by rushing up to me, wailing for my attention. I would follow her to the corpse, she would turn her back, and I would dispose of the perfect little bodies. I guess they just died of fright. This winter however, Nala's approach has changed again: she now eats them. I discovered this when she hopped on my lap, gazed at me lovingly, and purred. Only then did I notice the tail dangling from her mouth. Yuck. Pippy, the other cat, is an anti-blood-sports campaigner and has no interest in hunting domestic vermin.

Bloodless methods

My own methods have always been bloodless. I reason with the mice: "You want this Cheddar? It's yours, take it. But you have to leave the premises." Deals were struck. All my life I have been the person sent into a room, a cupboard, a shed, a stable, to catch mouse. Men and women have asked me to save them, and I obliged; I caught the little critters, held them in my hands and released them at an acceptable distance from frightened humans. It's my party piece - pathetic, I know, but useful.

Mice and I happily co-existed. They didn't chew my books; they saw me as a negotiator and let me hold them. But the old civilities have faded. Recently I cut my hand and went to my secret store of Bart Simpson plasters in the old kitchen dresser. When I opened the drawer, my Simpson plasters had been neatly razored to confetti by some ungrateful mouse. As blood dripped on the floor, I cursed the mice and wrapped my hand in kitchen paper and roasting foil. Mice everywhere have lost a friend.

Like Irish motorists, mice have become death-wish antagonists with no regard for others. Some months ago I declined tea at the home of an Irish writer when I noticed mouse-droppings in the sugar-bowl. Now this could happen to me. And there are other disturbing behavioural patterns. Most mornings it is now usual to see dead mice floating in the water buckets in the stable. Are these drownings accidental? Or are these mice being pushed by psychopathic family members?

Phobic horse

My horse makes no attempt to conceal her fear of mice. It can be awkward when in her panic she attempts to leap into my arms. Last week, after a night of wind and rain, she looked more bothered than usual as newly defiant mice rampaged through the yard. She had left a fair amount of hay in her stall. She is normally a good eater, so I was worried.

She looked me in the eye and then stared at the hay, before staring back at me. I looked at the hay. A big rat was lying on his back in it. He may have simply had a heart attack, but I like to think she had killed him - along with her phobia.