Mouse

Out of sight, out of mind is an apt description of our digs' garden.  Specifically the path running behind the house, used exclusively by tenant Greg.  The only time I ventured through what had become a wild and terrifying secret-garden'esque tunnel was to locate miscellaneous items that Celine, the domestic vigilante, had hung out to dry.

A man was hired.  He was given time, a machete and apparently loose guidelines on what a socially acceptable time to start chopping on a Sunday morning is.  Note to reader, its not 07:30.

In a seemingly unrelated venture I got down to making a snack after Church, only to find my slice of bread obstructed on entering the toaster.  Obstructed by a par-cooked field mouse.

Theory goes; our indigenous (unconfirmed) eco bonanza in the pathway had become a favourable habitat for mice.  Subsequent remodelling resulted in our house, ne toaster, becoming a safe-zone.  The mouse is just lucky rodent society doesn't sport a version of the Darwin Awards.