Mistaken Identity

I saw a mouse,’

‘Where?’

‘There on the stair’

‘Where on the stair?

‘Right there…

A little mouse clogs on

Well, I declare

Going clip clippity clop

On the stair…right there’

I read about a mouse in a newspaper this afternoon. A woman saw a mouse, not on a stair and not wearing clogs or clip clippity clopping in windmill. It was just there, not really moving at all. She phoned someone, an agency that dealt with vermin. It all sounded very urgent so the man and his van, a mask and a pair of gloves, came round to deal with the infestation.

‘I saw a mouse,’

‘Where?’

‘Just over there’

‘Where over there?

‘Right there…’

Sure enough there was a mouse, calm as you like, right there. It wasn’t moving. The man hazarded a guess that the mouse was dead. It stands to reason that it would have disappeared down a mouse hole if it was alive. The mouse allowed itself to be captured.

‘I have a mouse,’

‘Where?’

‘Here in my hand’

‘Where in your hand?

‘Right here…’

It turned out to be a toy mouse, looking like the real thing, but fashioned from soft plastic. There were no clogs, no clip clippity clop on the stair, just a plastic mouse not moving anywhere.

What else looks like the real thing but proves to be something else entirely?

My dad was a practical joker so I’m told. I remember an incident when I was very young. He came marching into the sitting room. He had all the appearance of an angry man.

‘Someone has been sick on the bathroom floor!’

He stabbed a finger in my direction. I hadn’t been sick. I would have been crying if I had. I was a pathetic creature with very little backbone in those days. Some would say that I haven’t changed much since then.

‘You,’ he said, ‘get a mop and bucket and clean it up. Now!’

I didn’t argue. I wasn’t my sick, but I fetched the mop and bucket and headed up stairs. My father followed me up the stairs and stood leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over.

It was there on the bathroom floor. A pool of sick. Were those carrots floating around in it? I slapped the mop in the middle of the pool, one hand covering my nose. I dragged the mop towards me. In its entirety the puddle moved with the mop. The carrots did not float off in a different direction but held their place. There was no wet, slurping sound and there was no unpleasant aroma.

It was just a piece of plastic, sick coloured, dotted with plastic carrots. It looked real but it wasn’t. My dad howled with laughter. The siblings crowded round the door laughed too. I think there might have been a big, wet tear sliding down my cheek.

What else looks like the real thing but proves to be something else entirely?

I hate to say it but there a lot of people claiming to be Christians. They look the part, polished up nicely for church on Sunday. They tick so many of the boxes we associate with a faith confession. When it comes to that last day, when they knock on the door of heaven, will Jesus say, ‘Go away. I never knew you.’?

What looks like the real thing isn’t always.