Can’t sleep, clowns will eat me.

I was suffering from “can’t sleep clowns will eat me” last night. I tried to sleep a few times, gave up, buggered about on the internet until I finally felt sleepy, stared at the clock, went “argh 2am, argh”, and went to sleep.

Presumably I snored. I usually do. Tobermory had quite sensibly departed for another bedroom about 11, figuring that even if I couldn’t sleep, he wanted to, and judging from the snoring noises echoing down the hallway, succeeded relatively quickly.

I woke up. Oh god, 3.30 am. Argh.

*scrabblescrabble* *purrr* *squeak* *pause* *scrabblescrabble*

“FOR GOD’S SAKE TIGRA. FUCK OFF.”

*scrabble* *squeaksqueak* *scrabble*

I threw a pillow under the bed.

There was glorious silence. I composed myself for a resumption of sleep, snuggled down under the duvet, and shut my eyes.

*scrabblescrabble* *squeeaaak* 3.45. A second pillow followed the first one: Tigra ran down the hallway looking offended. I went back to sleep.

*scrabblescrabble* *squeaksqueak* *scrabble*

I leaned over, looked under the bed, past the cushions, at Tigra. She looked at me, indicated that she was not doing anything in particular actually thankyou, and did you know you look quite bizarre upside down, human?

4.15am. I attempted to resume sleep.

*scrabblescrabble* *squeak* *scrabble* “NO. NO NO NO. FUCK OFF. GO AWAY. ARGH.”

*pause* *scrabble* *squeak* *scrabblescrabble*

4.30. I stare patiently at the ceiling, trying to restrain the desire to strangle the cat, who, to be fair, is generally fairly well behaved, so what the *squeakscrabble* hell is going on you rowdy *scrabble, purr* animal!

At about 4.45 I gave up, got out of bed, and looked under the bed to see what was going on.

Tigra had one leg shoulder-deep in Tobermory’s shoe. The shoe was squeaking.

I planted my face in the carpet while attempting to process this; got up, found my glasses, and returned to the floor.

Tigra purred at me, and backed away from the shoe, clearly expecting me to assist her in her squeaky venture.

I got the shoe out from under the bed, didn’t immediately see anything amiss, and prodded the toe. *squeak* I stared into the shoe, somehow loath to stick my hand in, inquisitively squashed the toe again, and realised what I thought was shoelace was in fact tail. The squeak suddenly gained an origin other than “excited cat” or “catnip toy”, and in fact revealed itself to be “distressed mouse”.

It squeaked.

I opened the door, discovered a Boomer on the other side, banged my head on the door a bit, went back into the bedroom, found a robe, juggled squeaking shoe, demanding cats, and robe until I was at least vaguely decently attired.

I marched to the fence, and pointedly pulled on the tongue of the shoe. The mouse, perhaps realising at this juncture that Something Unusual Is Going On here, stuck it’s head out. I indicated that the shoe was now on the fence, and perhaps the mouse might like to consider getting out of the shoe? The mouse appeared to take my point, as it disappeared quite smartly.

And then it was 5am and there was no point trying to get more sleep.

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