Well where is it? The trap's been cocked for 24 hours with a luscious gobbet of brown bread trembling in anticipation on the prong.
Rather like those two cars on the 100 mile desert road that drive towards each other in opposite directions and then can't help crashing in the middle, I have a horrible feeling that I'm going to spring the trap on my toes. Something seems to be drawing me towards it...
Maybe I'm pre-punishing myself for anticipating the murder of a sweet little mousie. I'm not scared of them, or even rats (which used to bubble up from our toilets in south London in days gone by).
It's more the hygiene thing, the little poos left as hieroglyphic signatures amongst the dust balls behind the sofa. Oops, that's not over-hygienic either. Where's the vacuum cleaner?