I was sitting outside with Psi the other day, having a smoke, when a tiny baby mouse, maybe two inches long, ran out of the share laundry in my apartment building and down the path towards me. Above it hovered a bird, barely larger than the mouse and coloured bright yellow with red splashed across its breast, eyeing the mouse as a tasty treat. The mouse cowered behind my hippeastrums, then ran around the corner of the building, the bird on its tail. Enchanted, I followed them, watching the mouse dart from hiding place to hiding place, the bird keeping with it. Finally, the mouse shot towards me and curled up, its tiny warmth shuddering against the bridge of my foot, under the hem of my jeans. The bird fluttered only centimetres from my left knee, then took off over the house in a blur of wings. Moments later, the mouse uncurled and slipped through a hole in the fence. Reminded me of Milne’s poor dormouse in his bed of chrysanthemums, yellow and white. Damn useless doctors.
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