Suspicions first arose when I came home from work to find the gate to the front door left slightly ajar. That is not how I left it. In its defence we can’t actually lock it because we’ve either been given the wrong key, or it’s just fucked.

It does however jam in pretty tight when it’s shut. Three thoughts crossed my mind:

  1. One house mate,
  2. Another house mate,
  3. A postman.

Seems plausible, except….

One house mate went on holiday a few days ago, he asked me to water his plants until Monday, so he’s not back… Haven’t watered his plants either, whoops. The other left work slightly early this evening to catch a film, naturally I’d of loved to go along but I’ve had to get home on time this week to keep checking on a leak in my room. So that leaves Mr.Postman, still plausible… but they wouldn’t of needed to open the gate to put mail through the hole, still entirely possible though, I suppose.

I turn the key and give the door a little kick because it doesn’t really fit into the frame all that well, and what should I find before my feet? Mail… I guess it was the postman. Still not sure why the gate had to be opened though.

Nothing but relief for me, and an issue of “The Week” for one house mate, what appears to be a bill for the other, and some random junk for tenants long gone. I walk upstairs, chucking the junk mail into a pile with the rest on a shelf. Not sure why we do that, now that I think about it.

The gate was still bothering me, I didn’t understand why a postman would open it. I also didn’t understand why there was a strange amount of toilet roll in the toilet, or why the towel on the rack was all scrunched. I was the last to leave this morning. This is not how I left it.

It has to be the house mate, right? But there’s no way he’d of left his magazine on the floor for me to walk all over when I got in, he worships that subscription. Why would he have come home anyway? It’s not even on the way, he wouldn’t of… surely.

I flushed the toilet and straightened out the towel, then re-flushed the toilet a few times because it’s all fucked up and you have to trigger some random “pop” noise that basically means water won’t keep running as it tries hopelessly to fill the tank, or whatever the fuck you call that part of a toilet.

My eyes focused to the corner of the ceiling as I entered my room, to make sure it was still intact. Something was not how I had left it. I’d carefully stuffed the hole with tissue to stop rainwater dripping down the wall, it essentially acted as direction for the water to flow, allowing me to catch it easily in a large bowl. The tissue, however, was missing. I figured it had just fallen down with the weight of the wa…nope, nothing th…Wait, did I just fucking flush it? Why was it?… How was it? What.. was… what!?

I’d been trying to get someone in to fix the leak all week, it got to the point where I told them when I would be at home, then they just disappeared for a few days and ignored me. In their defence, I am only paying through my god damn nose to live here. Who the fuck did they send? He clearly didn’t like my tissue idea, I can see how his version of “leave a gaping hole there instead” is far superior.

So I fixed the hole back up and go to wash my hands, the house thunders as I run the hot water, it’s the sound of numerous pumps that they keep tacking on to fix the boiler. It gives up before I’m done, I can’t be bothered to fight it, I dry my hands, straighten the towel back out, head downstairs.

Mice infestation in homes of London is nothing new, but when you’re literally staring at one square in the eyes and not giving a shit as it pokes its teeny head out of a light fixture, well, it’s time to re-evaluate the things you don’t give a shit about, and get the fuck out of there.

I don’t know what sort of image people have in their mind when they think of talented, witty, great in bed, sexy, young men moving off to London to be successful in the career of their dreams.

But this is pretty much it, and it sucks.

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