I have a mouse. In my office. My office is next door to my flat, which if I lived in New York, I would call my apartment. Because I can walk home, I often work late hours, and in the earlier hours of the morning I have often thought I saw a mouse. Now I am sure.
I haven’t seen Stuart Little but have read ‘The Green Mile’ by Stephen King. His doomed hero, John Coffey, 
on the Green Mile, had a mouse called Mr Jingles.
Tonight my mouse did a bit of Mr Jingles. He sort of introduced himself, repeatedly. Which is good news, I’m glad he’s not invisible anymore. He’s very wary, but almost like saying hello.
And small, my God, an inch and a bit. With the cutest mouse eyes. He must feel like Gulliver in the land of the Brobdingnags. Given that I have suspected his presence here for sometime, I am loathe to try and ask him to leave.
It is after all, just an office, not a house, and he is after all, just a mouse.
