This, sadly, is the latest picture of our bird feeder, reposing in the rubbish on top of a mass of plastic fruit containers. Ironic that we were all just getting used to the idea of avoiding plastic at all costs and now, in the face of Covid, such ecological niceties have been completely disregarded.

These are the bags in which our big Waitrose order was delivered on Monday. In case you’re wondering why they are still sitting in a heap on the floor, they’re waiting for the 24-hour/48-hour/9-day period ( Take your pick of all the available estimates) that it will take for them to be Covid -free and safe to put away.

I had just got used to the Greenfinches flitting round our terrace and was wondering how long it would be before I could tame them to take seed from my hand – when I saw it.

I wasn’t sure I had seen it at first. Maybe it was a floater in my eye or a blackbird heading for the feeder. But then I saw another – or the same one again – scurrying back the other way . A small black mouse – definitely not a rat – that shot across the terrace and vanished into our thicket of plants.

It’s always fascinating to wonder why we have the fears we do. Unless we can ascribe a fear to a particular incident – a dog bite or a wasp sting – the things in the natural world that disturb us seem so random. For example, I think mice are sweet, cuddly creatures but “The Writer” can’t bear them anywhere in his vicinity. I’m terrified of spiders and will stand trembling outside the room in which one has taken up residence, whereas he sweeps in, bristling with machismo, and disposes of it. (I don’t care to ask how). I’m not especially frightened of snakes and was happy to tramp through the Australian desert or bush banging the ground with a stick in front of me or singing at the top of my voice. (I found the latter an excellent deterrent). We were told by rangers that the best way to deal with a poisonous snake indoors is to throw a towel over it and call the appropriate authority to dispose of it humanely. I do admit to being relieved at never having had to test that advice.

In Italy some years ago, Trisha, having been dozing barefoot under a tree, slipped her foot back inside her shoe, only to be bitten by what was later identified as a viper which ,we were told, live in trees and obviously drop down occasionally into available footwear. What followed was like a bad farce except to Trish, whose foot was blackening by the minute. All of us being of an age to have read Swallows and Amazons, Robinson Crusoe and Swiss Family Robinson, we decided a tourniquet was vital and lashed it round Trish’s knee as tightly as we could manage. Tod bashed the snake to death and remembered you were supposed to take it with you to the hospital. Someone else found a bottle of snake venom antidote buried on a shelf in the house, which, luckily, we didn’t use ,as we discovered later it was for horses and would probably have done a lot more harm than good. There followed a dash to Pronto Socorso at the tiny local hospital where the patients had to bring their own soap and lavatory paper. They dealt with it efficiently, warning us that tourniquets were so last decade and should never be considered and Trish – mysteriously- that she must never again eat water melon.

(As I said, this was many years ago and checking now, I can find no evidence for Italian vipers living or giving birth in trees and I may have got all sorts of other details wrong. If you read this, Trish and Tod, do let me know how you remember it).

Anyway, back to the bird feeder in the dustbin. Having seen the mouse and talked to our efficient House Manager, we were warned that bird-seed is definitely an inducement to mice and offered the choice of mouse traps or a sinister black box euphemistically called a “Mouse Bait Station” to help get rid of them. (In an apartment block it’s considered unneighbourly to let them just roam about).The idea of the bait station is that the mouse pops into the hole in the box, attracted by the smell of its favourite food, infused into a block of poison. The box has to be opened with a key so it’s safe from children and other animals.

I must say the idea of either device is upsetting. At present, I favour the crossed fingers solution, hoping that perhaps they’ll just go away now there is no bird feeder to attract them. But if “The Writer” sees the mouse again, I’m afraid it’s black box time.