Beaten by a fricken mouse.
Of course, I forgive myself for the encounter - when a man's hungry, he needs bread. What he doesn't need - indeed, never even begins to suspect - is the possibility that when a mouse is hungry, it also needs bread.
So there I was, happily fishing around in a plastic bag for a suitable chunk, when I felt two itchy little pinpricks in my finger. There was a black thing in the bag - a fricken black thing, moving so fast I could only see it was black and it was a thing.
The body kicked in long before the brain: I began dancing round the kitchen, shrieking and furiously flapping the bag around, desperate to get my hand back in one piece. Clearly some primal instinct, some remnant of my cave-sniffing past, had recalled that fast fricken black things were mortally dangerous. It scrabbled up my arm, bonzaid it's way to the floor, and wriggled under the stove.
I've recently begun considering meself something of a burlily unfuckwithable dude, so it was a bit of a blow to find meself clutching at my heart and squealing like a decidedly unburlily fuckwithable wretch.
Round 1 to the mouse: The traps are primed; the cheese is rich and stanky; there's a reputation at stake here.