Now, it's really getting personal

I hate to admit it, but Jaws the Mouse is winning our little battle to the (i.e. his) death.

All doubts of his actual existence were dispelled last night when poor Vanessa saw him not once, but twice; the first time prancing into the living room to watch a bit of telly and, a little later, dashing excitedly across the floor to play with Jamie's tractors.

It wouldn't be so bad, but I have no recollection of inviting him or, indeed, any other mouse into our house, never mind allow him to hog our TV, and Jamie assures me that only he is permitted to play with his tractors.

I purchased my first weapon of war yesterday afternoon in the form of a Rentokil mousetrap and, on arrival home and before Jaws joined us in the living room, set it up under the sink using chocolate as the bait.

But following his mid-evening flit, I moved it to the living room, blocked off the door with boxes and went to bed to dream of mice - which I promptly did (Vanessa likewise).

However, here's the thing. When I got up this morning and headed down to hopefully witness Jaws lying in state, I got a shock.

He'd somehow managed to spring the trap, scoff the majority of the chocolate and return to cover.

What a clever soon-to-be-dead little mouse he is.

I now have no choice but to up the ante. I've already ordered three plug-in pest repeller jobbies from Amazon to dissuade Jaws' in-laws from coming to visit him.

But in the meantime, I'm doubly determined to effect his gruesome end.

So later I'm off to buy two more mousetraps plus a jar of peanut butter which Zoe in Australia assures me Jaws will love. But if my improvised shock and awe tactics don't work, well, I don't know.

I believe landmines are now banned. Would anyone happen to have a flamethrower handy?