Yet another mouse story.
My Dad tells the story of his Mum, my Nan, cooking at home many years ago. I only ever remember Nan as a lovely old woman who doted on her grandsons, who spent every spare penny of her pension on buying sweets for my brother and me and who let us run absolutely riot. In her day however, she was a formidable woman. Standing a shade over six foot tall she was known in her block of flats as “The Bismarck” – not that she was German, just as formidable as a battleship.

She was in the kitchen of her apartment many moons ago, pots & pans on the hob, meat in the oven and generally a lot of clutter around the place. She had to hand a large pot, about to be filled with water and vegetables of some type when a mouse, rather foolishly, appeared and started running across the worktop. Cue my Nan’s automatic reaction.

You would, apparently, be amazed about the area of a small kitchen that can be covered by essence/innards of mouse when flattened by a saucepan. Needless to say, my grandparents having lived through the occupation in WWII, the food didn’t go to waste (being cooked, not exploded mousey that is).
( Hunter Stockton was murdered by a bicycle wielding axolotl,.,.,.,., Fri 23 Dec 2011, 12:51, Reply)