HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, ESPECIALLY MICE

A post this morning in the Purple Coo Common Room raised the awkward question of what to do about mice; whether they were really the pests they are made out to be and, if so, how to get rid of them.

I suppose the obvious answer is 'get a cat' which answer comes in much the same vein as that made to Queen Victoria who allegedly was bothered by the quantity of fractious sparrows nesting around the bedroom windows in one of her ivy covered palaces and sought advice from her equerry, or maybe it was the Prime Minister - Disraeli or Gladstone, perhaps. To which the answer came 'Try sparrow-hawks, Ma'am.'

We do not know whether this suggestion amused our late Queen or merely aggravated her. (She was always being aggravated by her Prime Ministers and in particular by Gladstone, who used to talk to her - she complained - as if she were a public meeting, instead of a tiny, intrepid old lady bothered by pestilent and quarrelsome beasties). It is a moot point, I suppose, whether sparrows come above mice in the pecking order of pestilent and quarrelsome beasties, but as the point is of absolutely no relevance either to bird or beast we may as well leave it there.

Now it is of course Christmas-tide. This being 'the weekend before' we are officially embarked on the fortnight of saturnalia. We have detached the painter and pushed the festival boat out into the river where we shall float downstream - definitely downstream - on a high tide of excess and ill-will, the season of goodwill seemingly forgotten in a haze of alcohol.

Which is why it is good, occasionally, to remember another side of Christmas, the magical and mysterious side, when strange happenings are afoot and to this end I would urge you all (if you are bothered by household invaders) to re-read one of the most magical of all Christmas books - The Tailor of Gloucester, which coincidentally and happily for the introduction to this piece (which would otherwise be left hanging without any article body to support it) is also about mice and what happens when you treat them nicely for once.

I am not going to rehearse the story here. You will either know it or if you don't then I suggest you acquire a copy of the book rapidly (Amazon can still deliver in time for Christmas) and read it at least three times before lunch.

For I do believe that everyone can be improved by this wonderfully redemptive tale and by Beatrix Potter's heart-warming illustrations from a century ago.

Personally, I have always been intrigued by the old legend - arising I suppose from the Nativity and the animals in the stable all grumbling furiously about having their sleep disrupted by the doleful cries of a mother giving inconvenient and painful birth - that in the hour before midnight on Christmas Eve, animals can talk to each other in a language that we cannot understand. The bigger animals look sadly at us, shaking their great heads and muttering things like 'after all it's not us that's destroying the earth' and 'God didn't have to send his Son to save us.'

Meanwhile, the little creatures - mice and sparrows - flitting about after the crumbs and too young for sober reflection, whisper cheekily to each other, 'I hope it's a stable relationship!'

Anyway Beatrix Potter's tale turns on this idea that inter-animal communication can be harnessed to achieve a great task - in this case to sew up an elaborate frock-coat and embroidered waistcoat - for the Mayor of Gloucester who is determined to marry on Christmas morning, thereby thoughtfully perhaps saving his future wife the labour of cooking at least one family Christmas lunch.

I have always been intrigued by this outfit - the elaborate tailoring details are described in detail in the book. Certainly it would have been a most excellently fine coat, a wonderful coat which makes me wonder why, when we have every labour saving device to make coats and waistcoats even more elaborate than in those days, we have given up on wearing such wonderful clothes. It all seems a waste of technology.

The Tailor of Gloucester, of course, had to sew by hand, half-blind, cross-legged, dawn to dusk or in the light of a few candles. No 250 stitch machines for him. But after cutting out the coat he falls ill and that's where the mice come in. Or rather out, for these are mice - evidently destined for the Gloucester Christmas Eve mouse ball for they are dressed to the nines, who have been captured and imprisoned under upturned tea-cups by the Tailor's hard-bitten cat, Simpkin. The Tailor finds them, 'this is passing extraordinary,' he says; and sets them free: and they repay him by sewing together the cut-out pieces of the Mayor's coat, so making his fortune.

And that is why I am forever hopeful that a mouse may one day do they same for me. Not perhaps sow up a coat, but leap on my laptop and write from my notes some short story or acute piece of analysis that will win me some grand literary prize.

I have not seen a mouse in the house recently but you never know. I am told they can smell the chocolate decorations on Christmas trees from 30 yards away. We do have mice in the theatre. They bring us luck, I like to think. And remind us that we have to share this planet we live on.

Happy Christmas to all then, human and animal, and especially to mice.