Praise The Bucket

Good afternoon, can I have a moment of your time to talk about our Lord and Saviour, The Bucket?

You don’t know about The Bucket? Well, allow me to educate you. May I come in? Can I have some orange juice? Ahh, that’s okay then, I’ll just park myself on this chair if you don’t mind.

That’s a lovely picture of you and your family.

So, The Bucket.

For a few weeks now, we’ve had an unspecified number of mice in the flat. It could be a horde of small, scuttly lodgers, or a single, incredibly persistent, drywall scratcher, single-pawedly making irritating squeaking sounds at night and covering the kitchen floor with the patter of their tiny feet.

Either way, we’ve tried various humane methods to deal with the issue, from a machine that makes a high-pitched screech that supposedly mice can hear and are frightened by, to humane traps carefully stocked with some of the more expensive grains and oats pilfered from my flatmate’s cupboard. I even waved a small PETA flag around, making it clear to the mice that I was on their side, that I wanted nothing more than to carefully remove them from their human-infested prison and release them back into the parks and bushes where their lives can flourish and be tragically extinguished by the swoop of a hungry predator. The Circle of Life, and so on.

Tragically, however, these totally reasonable measures failed to dislodge the fuzzy housebreakers, and soon their scrabbling and pattering and scratching and eating-a-hole-in-my-flatmate’s-sack-of-rice got too much to bear, and less humane options were considered.

Yet, fortunately for my fragile sense of ethical superiority, a saviour emerged from the darkest corner of that awkward bit under the stairs that has no real name but has become a de facto storage space for cardboard boxes, vacuum cleaners, and the second freezer my flatmate bought ages ago, thoroughly dissatisfied with the size of our provided freezer. In this tangled mess of discarded cleaning items and dusty floorboards, there is a mop and bucket, a pair of items that get semi-regular use in the kitchen, and so are perennially temporarily lodged in the space under the stairs that borders the kitchen, rather than being placed in the more proper, yet more awkward, room upstairs that is the residence of our heavy-duty cleaning supplies, such as laundry materials and toilet paper.

It so happened that last night, at the entirely-appropriate-to-be-still-up hour of about 1am, as my flatmate and I were chilling on the stairs, we were struck by a small scuttling sound, and a tiny mouse plopped down from the first floor and pattered across the stairs. Screams were screamed, water was spilled, and the weary realisation that our inability to deal with these mice was now becoming a tangible problem descended on our bipedal heroes.

The mouse found a spot on the stairs they seemed to like, and so sat there, staring into the gloom. Carefully, I approached, armed with no less than a colander, intending to trap the small beast inside a prison with ready-made air holes, so they could be transported away in the morning. However, my flatmate accurately pointed out that said colander was too big to fit on the stairs, and implied that my selection of it revealed my foolishness and unsuitability for the profession of humane animal control.

Saddened, but unswayed, I produced a smaller article of entrapment, a Tupperware box. However, having already broken the box in my attempts to punch an air hole in the bottom – in reality I may or may not have snapped the bottom in half and scarred it greatly – the box was largely useless, and as I swung the plastic cuboid down with mammalian clumsiness, the mouse easily dodged to the side.

This mouse, as it transpired, was also more of a daredevil than myself. While I was reduced to metaphorically filling the role of an end table, standing bearing my object – in this case the useless Tupperware box – in silence and passivity, awaiting instruction from a higher power to redirect my purpose, the mouse had leaped from the stairs altogether. Not seeing to where it jumped, I briefly panicked, pulled out a flashlight, and stared hopefully into the abyss beneath the stairs.

And there they were: in The Bucket.

The mouse’s diminutive stature – its dimensions were such that it would not be an exaggeration to call it the smallest living thing I have ever beheld with my own eyes – meant that it was unable to escape from the tall blue walls of The Bucket, and that vessel’s smoothed sides made it impossible for the mouse to gain purchase upon them and clamber out. With dimples in the base, into which could be and were poured water and food to nourish the mouse, The Bucket was a perfect humane prison for the poor creature. With the mouse provided for for the night, and the top of The Bucket sealed with air-hole-punched cling film just in case some act of God were to tip The Bucket over and offer the mouse a chance of escape, the humans went to bed, intent on releasing the mouse the following morning.

And, sure enough, the mouse was released! I carried The Bucket and its prisoner – who admittedly looked rather shaken from spending the night in its plastic belly – to a nearby park, and let the small creature free, before returning home and washing The Bucket, replacing it in its rightful place beneath the stairs, and lodging the much more familiar mop within its plastic casing.

But why am I telling you all this? Do you care for the plight of my flatmates and I, or even more so the plight of our furry guest? Do you even care for the work of The Bucket, they who are both domestic service item and humane animal trap at once, a transcendence of mortal properties to a higher plane of superior, multi-faceted being? Perhaps you don’t, and that is why you ought to hear the tale of The Bucket, and receive their teachings.

What?

No, I didn’t just try to nick that silver plate? No, you’re being very defensive.

No, I’ll call the police.

Then we’ll see who’s laughing.

The Nisa Supermodel

I’ve seen her,

It was a Tuesday night, the cold air drawing itself into puffed columns around my lips and nostrils as I walked into that chilly Nisa, the oh-too-convenient convenience store where I buy bread at a two-minute walk from my house instead of proper ingredients. My purple dodgeball hoodie was pulled over my head like a fabulous, yet serious and athletic cowl, clashing with my dark grey waterproof in what could be a bold fashion statement, or a hangover from my old ambivalence towards clothes that has left me with one too few coats, and one too many garishly-coloured hoodies.

Then she was there, strutting her proverbial, and indeed literal, stuff around the sleepy shelves of that local purveyor of pasta. Dressed in a colourful, panelled onesie, or a jumpsuit, or a body glove, whatever the term is for such a garment of artistry, she was confident, yet carried a skulky, shuffly air about her. Her hood was pulled over her head, her feet wrapped up in white Vans.

Back at it again?

Almost certainly. With her was a pair of onlookers, plainly-dressed, slightly-built men with large spectacles and an expensive camera; they pointed it at her as she crept around the store, a tall woman dwarfing yet not overwhelming the aisles of Super Noodles and OK! Magazines.

They took a photo. She stopped. They looked at each other. She walked back to the entrance to the aisle she had just walked out of, and the scene replayed again, her accomplices bending immediately back into their hunched, camera-toting attentiveness. This repeated another two times.

Then I stumbled into the scene, almost walking in front of the camera as this hoodied celebrity graced the Nisa floors with her presence. Yet the camera’s wielders were unfazed by my aspect, and continued to gaze upon their model, not allowing themselves to be distracted from such an artistic individual by one so base and fraught with wardrobe malfunctions as I.

They took another photo.

As the scene reset itself for a seventh or eighth time, I took my chance. I scarpered across the polished floor, struggling to hold in my arms my precious cargo: two Ribenas, a four-pack of vegan chocolate yoghurts, and a pack of those chocolate-filled Oreos that look like they should be sold only in the event of a national holiday, yet are strangely more plentiful, and far more satisfying, than their white-creamed companions.

I reached the counter, loot in tow, and quickly bought it, and the quiet, stoic man behind the Nisa counter narrowed his eyes and handed my a carrier bag. He was aware of the scene unfolding around us – he possessed greater mental wherewithal than the two camera-cronies – yet was unable to stop it, or breach the barricade of his counter and escape from a backdrop of concealed tobacco and those signs that are all passive-aggressive when they say ‘Don’t be offended if we ask for your ID’; I’ll choose when I’ll be offended, while this poor clerk cannot even choose where he stands.

I, however, had such freedom, and scampered out of the Nisa and back into the cold March night. I shot a glance over my shoulder, and saw the supermodel begin yet another stride down her catwalk, the two photographers stare at her with a strictly professional admiration, and the clerk roll his eyes, evidently weighing up the social benefits of letting a bunch of student photographers shoot in his store, versus the economic drawbacks of forever being known as the owner of ‘that place where the girl in the onesie posed for photos’.

In many ways, such a dilemma is beyond the cognitive mastery of one such as myself.

In many other ways, I kinda don’t give a shit.

Casey