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Dreadful Nonsense

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

Thank God we rent and didn't buy. That's all I can say. Because this way we get to blame everything that goes wrong with our flat - and recently, that does seem to be just about everything - we can blame on our landlords, whether or not it's their fault.

Frinstance: Last night, myself and He Who Only... were, like any normal couple in their late 20s, spending our Friday night sitting in our front room, feet up, down a few spanish beers and watching a DVD of a 1970s BBC drama that we rented off Amazon. It's only natural. Can you picture it? Good.

Now, add to that picture, during one of the crucial moments in the programme, a programme that is famed for it's tense drama and sudden changes of direction, a programme that occasionally has me sitting at the edge of my seat, my feet quite literally on the floor in front of me, add to that picture of us sitting in the semi-dark (in order to increase the experience of said tension), add to that picture...


A mother fucking mouse that came, I might add, not from the kitchen where we know they still live because they're chowing down on the blue poison we've put down as if it's so much yummy tasty takeaway food provided by a benevalent keeper and not showing a single fucking sign of dying and leaving me the fuck alone. No, this mouse did not come from the kitchen, which is now officially the domain of the mouse. This mouse came from the fucking HALLWAY. This mouse had NOT crossed said flat from kitchen to hallway and then back in again. No. This fucking mouse had come in FROM THE FLAT NEXT DOOR.

Mother fucking mouse.

I therefore called the landlords this morning and had a right 5 minute long go at them, because they had the audacity to tell me once again that it can take "a couple of weeks" for the poison to take effect and kill all the mice. I pointed out, using numbers, that it's now been FIVE WEEKS since we reported the mice and put down the poison that they continue to slurp up in highly suspiciously unusual amounts and STILL COME A-CALLING ON A FRIDAY NIGHT FROM NEXT FUCKING DOOR who also have poison, traps, beepy mouse buttons and all sorts down because of all the mice having a party in their flat.

Once I'd had my little rant, I felt a great deal better about the whole thing, because it's good to shout at someone else and make them fix your problems.

And then. The mother fucking ELECTRICITY cut out.

I'm currently typing this sitting cross legged on my bed, laptop on lap, plugged into an unprotected wireless network in the FUCKING DARK without mouse beepers, electric light or any kind of sound OTHER THAN MY OWN TERRIFIED SOBBING because the mother fucking mice come out to play once the mother fucking electricity goes out. They could be all around me, waiting to pounce at any moment.

Oh god help me.

In short: Nest'O'Love is currently seriously letting me down.


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