Dominatus NotRodentia Interruptus

My suspicions about the NotRats' world domination plans proved well-founded last week when I foiled their plot to recruit and train a rodent army, capable of destroying the delicate balance of power on the planet and turning humans into evil rabbit fodder.

Masterminded by Emma, with Torres carrying out orders unquestioningly, they have been steadily amassing an army of fieldmice from the meadows surrounding Friendly Drive.

Day after day I have cleaned up food scattered about the house by Emma, mistakenly believing she was just fussy and was discarding unwanted items from the foodbowl.

How wrong I was. The food served to entice unsuspecting and innocent countrymice into the house, thence to be brainwashed, trained in the deadly arts of Rodent Dimac, and hidden away under the kitchen kickboards, awaiting the Big Push.

Douglas Adams foretold this years ago, unveiling mice as the real rulers of Earth - only to be dismissed as a brilliant author of fiction, rather than hailed as the Nostradamus of his generation. Future generations of Nobel Prize winners will worship at his teatowel.

I digress.

I was up unexpectedly early to take a train to Leicester, which required a 3-brew pre-departure strategy, so I headed for the kitchen at about 5.30am. Scuttling along the kickboard was a tiny fieldmouse, desperate to reach its bunker. Now, I've spotted them before and done my best to shoo them back out to their natural habitat - investing in humane traps, rather than poison or guillotine them and incur the wrath of animal rights activists.

But this individual refused to cross the back door, despite my best efforts with a soft broom and set off for NotRat HQ. Believe me I did try, but time was a-passing and my tea:bloodstream levels were dangerously low. In the end I took up a pool cue (not my treasured one) and Happy Gilmored it against a cupboard. Instant death.

I paused to reflect on my actions for a second.

Finding my remorse indicator at a safe zero, I brewed up and went for a shower.

Not 20 minutes later, I'm back in the kitchen and there's another one. I scanned the garden briefly to ensure that the first one hadn't miraculously recovered and fought its way back in, but the bloody corpse was still prostrate on the lawn.

I took up the pool cue and despatched the second with an equally decisive blow (unfortunately at the expense of the cue, but it's a small price to pay).

Emma looked on impassively from the lookout deck and Torres took refuge in the wheel.

The next day I rehomed the NotRats with the Cook and her Lover, to let them regroup and draw their plans against us elsewhere.

When questions are asked in the House about the origins of the Rodent War, they won't be pointing the finger at the Ducks of Friendly Drive.