... The Mouse Ran Up the Clock.... The Clock Struck One ... The Mouse Ran Down ..... Hickory, Dickory, Dock.

Some days don't you just feel for the poor mouse? Running up and down his clock and running down again to some compulsive schedule? I suppose that to run up it it must have been a pendulum clock ... possibly a grandfather clock .. but the rhyme doesn't tell us whether the ascending rodent was running up the case of the clock or the pendulum itself.

And what is this all about? Does the mouse have a reason for running up the clock? Is it simply a diversion from its normal route? If so then why? Perhaps there is a deeper mystery here? A Da Vinci code symbolic meaning to the escalatory adventures of our mysterious furry friend?

And what was the cat doing whilst our adventerous whiskery friend was ascending skywards? Salivating salaciously perhaps at the thought of a serediptious morsel to be delivered precisely at lunchtime? Predictability is greatly to be admired in the cat and mouse world, as doubtless is precipitate punctuality.

I cannot avoid the feeling that whatever the outcome or indeed the purpose of this ancient rhyme - although exactly how ancient is itself a mystery but perhaps from the discovery of the constancy of pendulums and their use for time-keeping - there is some modern message hidden within its brief couplets. Perhaps it is nothing to do with mice and clocks, pedulums and perpendicularity, or even the mortality of all creatures who are curious to see what marvellous vistas are to be seen from above that are not discernible for those of us whose life involves cheese, skirting boards and panicky dashes behind sofas.

I may write a best selling novel about all this - somewhat along the lines of the Da Vinci Code involving the number 42 and small rodents who actually run the planet rather then climb clocks. With a little good fortune I should be able to get the Catholic Church to condemn it and excommunicate anyone who has the temerity to read it. For an organisation that has such a distinguished history of repression it should be a mere bagatelle to consign me and my work to eternal damnation on the flimsiest of excuses.

On the other hand I could go away and practice being grumpy. Those who know me say I have a natural talent for it, usually between clenched teeth.

Oh, and by the way, I have never really liked mice. Altogether much too given to scuttling behind wainscots if you know what I mean.....