There’s been a death in the family.
Or, more correctly, a murder.
An accidental murder, but one in which nothing was done to prevent it and no effort was made to report it. So a murder. A cold-blooded murder.
Flat Mouse, Peppa’s latest toy – one I loved and Carole hated – has died.
He went up the hoover at around 4.30pm today. He is still in there, as I haven’t had time to remove his catnip-filled, dust-covered corpse. There’s no hope of saving him. I can’t give a dusty mouse toy to our cat.
Basically, that’s £2.50 gone. Still, at least we got a week or so’s entertainment out of it.
I was merrily hovering this afternoon, and as I ran the vac under the bed there was a sound not unlike a “whumph” and where, I think, Flat Mouse used to be Flat Mouse, was no longer.
I mean, I would never have expected him to woosh up the thing like that. Because half the time you can’t get the hoover to want to suck up a small piece of paper (usually an offcut of something of Carole’s) without chasing it round the room. But no, apparently flat mouse-shaped cat toys are the ideal size and shape to vanish round the rollers of the vacuum head and into the drum.
I can’t face Peppa. I don’t know how to tell her. I’m just distracting her with other things like good ol’ Brown Mouse, or just treats. Lots of treats. She must think it’s Cat Christmas or something, all the attention she’s getting right now. And all because I can’t admit to the fact that I have killed her current favourite toy.
Carole’s delighted. I mean, she gasped when I told her. But then she cheered up when she realised it was gone and she wouldn’t have to be scared out of her wits by it anymore. Which I think is terrible. I really enjoyed her being scared out of her wits, it sort of made my day on more than one occasion.
I’m going to have to get another one – identical, obviously, so Peppa doesn’t know that anything’s wrong.