This year, it's a summer in the city for Mrs Mouse and me.
No foreign holidays. No fretting about suitcases being overweight. No early starts. No shuffling through Stansted Airport like condemned pigs.
No shovelling out untold piles of cash on swordfish steaks, questionable pizzas and strange beer. No lining up outside the Uffizi. No embarrassed pointing at things in charming delis as the only Italian I know is ‘Due birre, perfavore.’ No boredom on beaches.
There's a, meaning ‘a three-pronged instrument of torture’. In French, means pain, suffering or work.