I managed to accidentally arrange my diary so that I was in Bristol on the day we had to move house. My co-habiters, therefore, kindly moved all my stuff into the new pad. I like to use the term ‘pad’ because it makes it sound like it’s constantly full of babes whereas in actual fact it’s riddled with mice. They unfortunately didn’t go one step further and unpack all my belongings into various closets and drawers. This may also have been because there were no drawers in my room just mice.
Now don’t get me wrong, the “pad” is cracking, it’s just tempered somewhat by the fact I’m on the ground floor and after seeing a mouse run across the floor I’m now terrified I’m going to wake up with my face gnawed off. I’m not normally scared of mice; I mean I’ve once battered one to death with a bog brush holder (true story). Once, however, you see one in your bedroom, it’s a different story. It’s a story that results in my struggling to sleep and confirming my hatred of cheese. Despite me and Jerry becoming far too well acquainted this house is so much better than my last “pad”. Here are a list of things that are better:
-There is a kitchen on the ground floor and not the second floor
-There are no trains going past my bedroom window
-I can’t hear my housemates bonking
-There is an actual fire place for burning wood and chucking a photo of an ex-lover in (if I was in rom com)
Now I’ll leave you with that list and the cheery thought of my face being bitten to shit. Having said that the maintenance man, Peter, is going to lay some traps down where the mice will stick to a “pad” (not the house), then get destroyed (not by a bog brush holder).
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