Narrator: Colin V. | Essex, England
We heard scratching in the bread bin. Naturally I assumed mice. I carried the whole thing into the garden while my wife supervised from a safe distance, which she insists was practical rather than cowardly.
It was empty except for a bread bag and a few crumbs. No holes. I washed it, dried it, put it back.
The scratching started again before I’d boiled the kettle.
This time I kept my hand on the lid. The sound stopped. A finger pressed up from inside, directly beneath my palm. I could feel the rounded nail through the thin metal.
I took my hand away. Five little dents formed along the lid. They remained for several seconds, then eased flat.
My wife took it to the tip that afternoon. There was no discussion about trying to film it. We’d watched enough telly to know that was our moment to be sensible.
I’m the one who makes jokes about it now. She knows that if I hear a mouse in a wall, I’ll be out of the room before she has her shoes on.
