"You might need to put on your glasses," he advised.
True, as I am so short-sighted I can't see much more than a metre in front of myself.
Glasses on, I revisited the kitchen and looked for the thing I supposedly needed to see at an ungodly hour of a winter's morning.
It was a mouse.
And it was admittedly worth a look, given it was stomping back on forth on top of the dining room curtains. Right on top, along the pleats.
It didn't look overly chuffed about being up there, but the alternative was worse given there was a cat sitting on the dining room floor.
The cat was trying to look innocent, which is always suspicious in a cat. I was fairly sure the mouse hadn't come inside under its own steam, nor had it run up the curtains simply to admire the view.
Hubby was busying himself making cups of tea and there seemed to be an expectation that I, being the one that generally imports animals into the household, should be the one to export this wee beast.
But how? A mouse on the run is simple enough to herd into a container, or out the door, but this mouse was up the curtains.
I could poke it with something but once it fell the cat would grab it and I couldn't face that amount of violence before breakfast.
I could climb on to the dining room table and attempt to containerise it, but that could end badly and having had a mouse run up my sleeve once, and up my trouser leg one other time, I wasn't keen to get that close. Especially while balancing on a dining table constructed more for looks than substance.
The solution could have been to coax it on to a broom-head for removal. It looked keen enough to get down. I went looking for the broom and came up empty-handed.
All I could find was the squeegee mop, which was damp and dank and didn't look like something any self-respecting rodent would want to step on to.
So I wrapped the mop head in a clean cloth, opened the back door in anticipation and advanced on the mouse, holding the contraption in front of the creature in what I thought was an inviting manner.
"Come on mouse," I urged it, "step on to this handy-dandy mouse-removal platform."
The cat wound itself round my ankles, waiting for the mouse to fall to its doom.
The mouse looked at the mouse removal apparatus. Then it looked at the cat. Then it stepped daintily on to my squeegee mop.
"Keep still and hang on," I told it and I carried the whole lot to the back door, tipped the mouse off and promptly shut the cat inside.
I turned to accept my round of applause and cup of tea from hubby. Neither were forthcoming. While I had been saving the mouse from a nasty demise, he had been videoing me on his mobile phone.
He informed me that he could, at a moment's notice, upload the video to Facebook. And tag me in it.
He reminded me that I was wearing a polar-fleece onesie with stars on it.
I glanced down. Yes, I was.
I am now on my best behaviour, held hostage by the threat that my onesie-clad mouse-whispering could be made public. I am not to bring home any cats, kittens, dogs or puppies. Nor horses, ponies or goats. Sheep are okay, apparently. And pigs, but only if they are nameless and have bacon potential.
I suspect, given my track record, I'll be online by about Wednesday.