Yes, I told myself, I don’t think it is at all a bad thing to be a mouse.
I was wandering around the Ballroom floor thinking about all this when I spotted another mouse. It was crouching on the floor holding a piece of bread in its front paws and nibbling away at it with great gusto.
It had to be Bruno. “Hello, Bruno,” I said.
He glanced up at me for about two seconds, then went right on guzzling.
“What have you found?” I asked him.
“One of them dropped it,” he answered. “It’s a fish-paste sandwich. Pretty good.”
He too spoke with a perfectly normal voice. One would have expected that a mouse (if it was going to talk at all) would do so with the smallest and squeakiest voice you could imagine. It was terrifically funny to hear the voice of the rather loud-mouthed Bruno coming out of that tiny mouse’s throat.
“Listen, Bruno,” I said. “Now that we are both mice, I think we ought to start thinking a bit about the future.”
He stopped eating and stared at me with small black eyes. “What do you mean we?” he said. “The fact that you’re a mouse has nothing to do with me.”
“But you’re a mouse, too, Bruno.”
“Don’t be a fool,” he said. “I’m not a mouse.”
“I’m afraid you are, Bruno.”
“I most certainly am not!” he shouted. “Why are you insulting me? I haven’t been rude to you! Why do you call me a mouse?”
“Don’t you know what’s happened to you?” I said.
“What on earth are you talking about?” Bruno said.
“I have to inform you”, I said, “that not very long ago the witches turned you into a mouse. Then they did it to me.”
“You’re lying!” he cried. “I’m not a mouse!”
“If you hadn’t been so busy guzzling that sandwich,” I said, “you would have noticed your hairy paws. Take a look at them.”
Bruno looked down at his paws. He jumped. “Good grief!” he cried. “I am a mouse! You wait till my father hears about this!”
“He may think it’s an improvement,” I said.
“I don’t want to be a mouse!” Bruno shouted, jumping up and down. “I refuse to be a mouse! I’m Bruno Jenkins!”
“There are worse things than being a mouse,” I said. “You can live in a hole.”
“I don’t want to live in a hole!” Bruno shouted.
“And you can creep into the larder at night,” I said, “and nibble through all the packets of raisins and cornflakes and chocolate biscuits and everything else you can find. You can stay there all night eating yourself silly. That’s what mice do.”
“Now that’s a thought,” Bruno said, perking up a bit. “But how am I going to open the door of the fridge to get at the cold chicken and all the leftovers? That’s something I do every evening at home.”
“Maybe your rich father will get you a special little mouse-fridge all to yourself,” I said. “One that you can open.”
“You say a witch did this to me?” Bruno said. “Which witch?”
“The one who gave you the chocolate bar in the hotel lobby yesterday,” I told him. “Don’t you remember?”
“The filthy old cow!” he shouted. ‘I’ll get her for this! Where is she? Who is she?”
“Forget it,” I said. “You don’t have a hope. Your biggest problem at the moment is your parents. How are they going to take this? Will they treat you with sympathy and kindness?”
Bruno considered this for a moment. “I think”, he said, “that my father is going to be a bit put out.”
“And your mother?”
“She’s terrified of mice,” Bruno said.
“Then you’ve got a problem, haven’t you?”
“Why only me?” he said. “What about you?”
“My grandmother will understand perfectly,” I said.”She knows all about witches.”
Bruno took another bite of his sandwich. “What do you suggest?” he said.
“I suggest we both go first of all and consult my grandmother,” I said. “She’ll know exactly what to do.”
I moved towards the doors which were standing open. Bruno, still grasping part of the sandwich in one paw, followed after me.