The soon-to-be-constructed 'Cheesegrater' building seems to have attracted a little murine attention. Could it be the same family of mice we previously encountered at Newham Hospital, and Asda? Could it...could it?

Papa Mouse: [to his 8 starving children] My little mouslings, now that we have been driven out of both Newham General Hospital and the Lavender Hill branch of Asda and we are hungry and homeless, we must concentrate all our efforts on finding somewhere new to live. Preferably somewhere clean and smart and devastatingly cool. Somewhere new and shiny. But where?

Mouslings: We're hungry! We're unhappy! We wish we were dead, like our older brother Tim-Tim who drowned in a pot of UHT custard during a botched burglary of a Hackney cornershop!

Mama Mouse: Oh, my poor darlings, in our hour of need, if only I could take you from this crude shelter made of discarded copies of London Lite and Metro and polystyrene coffee cups. But what is this? Am I so close to death that I am imagining things? Is that... is that Tim-Tim, come to take me to the afterlife where he now resides as a ghost-mouse?

Papa Mouse: Oh darling wife, you are ill after an exclusive diet of Smarties and Twix bars. That is not Tim-Tim but a picture of Prince Harry that London Lite felt necessary to run as their front page colour photo. Tim-Tim has just appeared behind you.

Mouslings: Tim-Tim! Tim-Tim! We thought you were dead!

Tim-Tim: I did not die, I only pretended to be dead so that I could run away to Spain and re-train as an architect. I have turned my back on crack and crime and custard... and I have built you all a home. Behold! I give you... El Rallador de Queso!

Papa Mouse and Mouslings: Gasp! The Cheesegrater!

Mama Mouse: Mi hijo, soy muy orgulloso, es un casa magnifico. Haces a
la memoria de padre.

Papa Mouse: How can the Cheesegrater be in memory of me? I'm not dead...And why do you and Tim-Tim speak such good Spanish?

Mama Mouse: Now we have our splendid cheese-based home, it is time to
tell you the truth. Tim-Tim is not your son. He is... my pimp. And, dear mouslings, he is your real father.

Papa Mouse: Gasp! Betrayal! I shall leap from the conveniently high roof of your splendid new skyscraper building. [runs to top of the Cheesegrater and jumps to his death.]

Tim-Tim: Mi hijos, vivimos como familia real en El Rallador de Queso.
Tenemos la mejor vista, y podemos ver Papa Mouse todos los dias.

Mouslings: Yay! We can see live like royalty in the Cheesegrater and see Papa Mouse everyday!

Mama Mouse: There is a smear of his blood on that slope of glass and
steel that will never be wiped off.

Mouslings: Hurray! Let's go get some extra mature cheddar to celebrate! [Exeunt]

Thanks to Hazel for that latest installment.

Keep on sending in your distorted images of the capital to londonist - at - gmail - dot - com