Jerry

It is a known fact that lunch with your colleagues is the perfect opportunity to talk, talk, talk. There is no limit to the chat, with one strict exception: talking about work is NOT allowed. Even though the rule was never written, the law was never voted or passed, everyone knows the silent tradition and even the innocent new recruits learn fast, instinctively. And that is also why the corner jail remains empty most of the time. We are a lenient bunch and our kindness knows no boundaries, that is true.

The self-inflicted restriction clearly explains why we jump from one subject to the other with incredible flexibility and no fear of heights. First on the topic list you will invariably find food: this is an easy one since - as I read somewhere in the press - women are very prone to check what's in their neighbor's plate and to even brood over it ("will potatoes make me fat?", "Now I know why her skin is gleaming, it's all in the liters of olive oil she uses!"). Next in line are the morbid subjects - I would rather not comment on that since we still have not found a shrink that would accept us all for a much needed group therapy. Well, no need to extend the list (lucky you: scatological stories were next in line), but it is then definitely worth mentioning that a new entry appeared on our lips while we were hungrily slurping from our soup bouls: the mouse talk.

The sad truth is that most homes around here shelter humans and...mice. 

(Now: stop screaming, I am telling you here this is routine, piece of cake, no worries and everything is under control.)

Well, except that for most of us (foreigners), everything is miles away from being ok. Horror stories of mighty mice running around apartments in the dead of night, opening jam jars and chewing away at Oreos (the time of bread crumbs and stale cookies is O-V-E-R, my friends) crowd our conversations and show that in the midst of worldwide crisis, Jerries are happily multiplying - and with pot bellies too - while the historical image of a terrified woman jumping onto the dining table and screaming to the top of her lungs for rescue is still on the agenda.

But then, something is definitely wrong with our apartment since we have never seen a mouse around; something may also be wrong with our eyesight, but then it is no secret for anyone that I am shortsighted... there may be a conclusion to be drawn there, I'll give you that.

Guess what? We are no longer different and unique in our mouse-less home sweet home! We have proudly joyned the super raton club and own our very first mouse: the Mighty Mouse. 

White and powerful. Clean and obidient. Elegant and efficient.