During some of the most enjoyable years of my twenties, I shared a house in East London with three close friends. We were all packed into a three-bedroom terrace, where the dining room had been converted into an additional bedroom. Our bond was strong, characterized by an almost codependent relationship typical of young adults, which often becomes impractical as life progresses with long-term partners, pets, and children. Our lives were intertwined; we lived together, socialized together, and during the summer months, we would take our Argos tent to various festivals. Late-night conversations about our romantic lives and career challenges often involved huddling around a phone to compose messages.
However, cleanliness was not our strong suit, leading to a cluttered environment that became an inviting habitat for mice. Initially, we convinced ourselves that the occasional mouse sighting was an isolated incident, but a quick online search revealed our concerns were well-founded—mice are social animals and unlikely to be alone. A female mouse can give birth to five to eight offspring and may do so multiple times each year. We stumbled across forum discussions suggesting that mice were “doubly incontinent,” a claim that has since been debunked, yet our anxiety continued to escalate.
As mouse sightings increased and we discovered droppings on the kitchen counters, we realized we needed to take action. Since two of my roommates were vegetarians, we initially opted for humane traps, intending to release the captured mice in the garden or a nearby park. Unfortunately, these traps proved ineffective, and the mouse population continued to flourish.
After several weeks of enduring the situation, we reluctantly decided to resort to traditional traps baited with peanut butter, a favorite of mice. We made an effort to keep the countertops clean and ensured our cupboards were secure. Additionally, we purchased wire wool to seal gaps in the skirting boards, with varying degrees of success. Determined to reclaim our home, we felt as if we were engaged in a battle.
One rare evening alone in the house, I thought I would enjoy some jam on toast. As I blasted Beyoncé from my phone, I flipped the toaster upside down to clear out the crumbs. To my shock, a tiny brown mouse tumbled out, landing on the kitchen counter, equally startled and alive.
I let out a scream akin to that of a character in a horror film, but there was no one around to hear me. The mouse, frozen in place, seemed to glare back at me, possibly experiencing fear or perhaps indignation. It occurred to me that, from its perspective, I was the intruder, clumsily disrupting its comfortable home filled with crumbs. I banged on the countertop, prompting it to flee, and the rest of my evening was spoiled. I avoided the toaster for weeks afterward.
While I don’t miss sharing my living space with mice, nor do I have fond memories of our indifferent landlord, who resolved our roof issue with a piece of tarpaulin and left us to handle the rodent problem, I do reminisce about the wild adventures shared with friends who were too broke and carefree to embrace full adulthood.
I often wonder about that little brown mouse from the toaster. Did it get displaced due to gentrification, or is it still foraging for sourdough crumbs left by the house’s new residents? I genuinely wish my former housemate and her numerous descendants all the best.
