Spa time: This is it. I've never done anything quite so base. Not even the time when I had to pick up radioactive mouse turds with a tweezer compares.
Today, I had to use a depilatory cream to remove hair from a mouse. Yes. You read it correctly. Of course, it's not as if anyone actually manufactures a mouse version of Neet or Nair. Hmmm. What would you call it? Mair? Mousseet? You think about it.
So I trudged over to London Drugs very reluctantly, wishing that Dr. Shark or Crane would do the honours instead, and headed to the hair-removal aisle, right next to the hair adding aisle, and hair care aisle. This is how stupid humans are – having these three aisles side by side.
And there the tubes were, in all their pink glory, with pictures of flowers, herbs and smooth legs. The one I ended up buying (cheapest) contained extract of camomille and ylang-ylang to "soothe and comfort your skin" – makes sense I suppose after all, the stuff is mostly calcium hydroxide. Fortunately, for the cashier, he didn't smirk or make any untoward comments, or ask for a price check on the p.a.
However, the stuff works really well. For the record, I wasn't removing hair from their little legs either. I shall leave it at that.
The cream works very well though. Poor things, I'm sure their cage mates were laughing at the sudden lack of hair. V. Traumatizing I'm sure.
St. Clare of Assisi: I bet you know about St. Francis of Assisi, he who used to feed and speak to the little birdies – incidentally, St. Francis would probably not approve of what's happening to the bird population. Apparently BILLIONS of birds are killed each year because they slam into transmission towers, high-rises, glass-plate windows and various other man-made structures. But I digress.
Well. You remember all that palaver about my lost phone and being shunned by Bloody, Bastard, Bugger, Bollocks Bell Canada? Yes? Yes? You remember? V. Good.
Mickey recommended I appeal to St. Clare and the Poor Clares (as those who follow her order are known, poor things) for help during this trying time. I fostered the hope that St. Clare was the patron saint for blasting rude and useless telecom companies such as BBBBBC out of the time and space continuum, but was disappointed when Mickey directed me to the information page on the Mother Superior of the Poor Clares, St. Clare herself.
You see. St. Clare is the PATRON SAINT of TELEPHONES.
Fascinating what a study of hagiography will turn up – that's the study of saints – do keep up – isn't it? So yes, she looks after phones, and I have lit a few candles and made several supplications to her and the Poor Clares to look after my lost phone, and help the poor thing find its way back to me.