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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

Sitting in the Nest ‘O’ Love last night, uploading a multitude of podcasts to my gloriously efficient MP3 player and reflecting on the vagaries of life, we were interrupted in our communal naval gazing by a knock on the door.

I looked up from the computer. He Who Only… looked over from the sofa. We stared at each other. We stared at the door. I said, “Someone’s knocking on the door”. He said, “Was that our door?” I said, “I think that was our door.”

We could have gone on like that for hours.

We carried on. “I bet,” I betted, “that it’s the neighbours asking if we have mice.” “Mmm,” He Who Only… mmmed, “could be.”

We sat and thought about the implications of that for a while.

Somebody knocked on the door again.

We stared at each other.

In the end, He Who Only… strode to the door and pulled it open without a care in the world, ready to face whatever might lie on the other side. It was our new next door neighbours, those who moved in about two weeks ago (the lady one of which I’ve met on the stairs about three times in the morning but have been completely unable to say hello to, because my brain does not exist in the morning - it arrives at my office about an hour after I get there, making excuses for its tardiness and promising it won’t happen again). Our building consists of identical couples in every flat - one boy, one girl, all white, all middle class, all in their mid to late twenties. I even think that every single one of us buys the Guardian on a Saturday, and we all seem to have mild alcoholic tendencies, judging by the recycling box.

The two neighbours who were at that moment standing outside our door even had incredibly similar names to ours; so similar in fact that we all laughed when we introduced ourselves. It was like bad writing in a sitcom, or a terrible ad for car insurance.

The neighbours had called round to enquire, with the best of intentions, whether or not we had mice in our flat. We laughed. Again. I think they might think we’re mentally ill.

We shot the breeze over the ant infestation, the mouse infestation, the fact that there is a serious gas leak in the flat below us, the fact that our old furniture is blocking off the stairwell, the terrible noise of the traffic outside the flat, and the fact that if a bus cut the corner too sharply, these flats would probably collapse like a house of cards.

Again. I think they might think we’re mentally ill.

We left it that they would call the landlords, mention that our mice had been driven into their flat, and ask that they please remove all of these mice as soon as possible, since the lady half of each of the flats in the building is getting tired of pulling up our socks, jumping on to chairs and yelling “THOOOOOOMMAAAAAAAAAS!” in what is probably a quite racist manner.

But the important thing to remember right now is that the mice? They are no longer in our flat. Our Nest ‘O’ Love is no longer infested. Hoorah.

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