At first I disregarded the fallen soap box. My careless stowing, I thought. Nor did I at first notice the neat hole in a cardboard oatcakes pack. Until I removed one of the internal cellophane wrapped sachets and observed the obsessively precise bisection of all seven oatcakes, rendered as seven perfect semi-circles. No crumbs, no ragged edges - just perfectly aligned diametric trims. Not quite so clinically tidy were the dry black faeces scattered nearby, which finally persuaded me that we'd been entertaining little visitors.
Then I returned to the soap. Evidently our gourmet guests had scorned dry oatcakes, and applied much ingenuity to secure a topping. Hence the soap box knocked to the floor to remove the lid. The toothmarks on the bar indicated healthy appetites and appreciative chomping.
Whether there were any upset rodent tummies after this unconventional feast is unclear, but we shall have to monitor soap consumption from now on.
It was peaceful constructing the shelves, undistracted by mice or men.
When I could no longer see where to put the screws for the towel rail, I knew it was time to head home.
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