This blog when it isn't A High Wind In the Canaries is turning into reality check Beatrix Potter.
Granny is/was at this moment about to make a cake. When she opens the plastic box in which all goods have to be stored here - if not against mice, against weevils - a stench greets her; and out jumps a mouse; - was it her shut him/her in? Probably. Silly Granny. Sillier mouse. Feline Houdini was not alas in attendence. He should have been. Mr or Ms Mouse had evidently been there sometime; had finished most of a box of precious Carluccio pasta. BP's Mrs Tittlemouse was such a clean little creature, Granny remembers, forever out with her dustpan and brush cleaning up after others. Given the fact that mice can deposit 50 droppings a day, at least, much of that activity must have been devoted to cleaning up after herself. 'Shoo, shoo,' cries Mrs T to slugs and butterflies, 'dirty feet'. 'Shoo shoo shoo' cries Granny to Mrs T's unwanted relative, 'dirty bum.' Literature isn't truthful is it?
Same site, incidentally, which provided unsavoury info on vast numbers of mice faeces provided even less welcome info that mouse virus might be implicated in breast cancer....
Granny can't vouch for the latter now. Can vouch for former. The evidence was empirical. A scientist's word for under her nose. Yuk.