Meet the new house, same as the old house

ICAME back from a trip abroad to the day from hell. I thought when I moved house that all my worries would cease. From an old house to a much newer house. It all made sense. Not really.

I arrived home to a stench that was identifiable from the front door as gone-off rancid food. The fridge freezer had stopped working in my absence. I wonder if the diet gods had been at work while I was away, knowing that I had over imbibed and eaten my own body weight in fattening foods. Everything had to be thrown out.

I got to work and dumped everything, cursing all the while. And then I went to the loo. And pulled the chain. And discovered the toilet was blocked. And still is. No amount of caustic soda has worked.

While I was away the roofer to whom I paid copious amounts of money to fix a roof that is still leaking was meant to call to remedy the botched job. Needless to say he hadn’t bothered to turn up.

When I finally sat down that night to relax my stressed brain, I noticed something moving from the couch to the floor next to me and thought something had fallen. Until I saw it moving across the floor.

A mouse had taken up residence in my absence. I screamed, ran out the back door and phoned my son. He fell around the place laughing at my abject fear of mice.

“I’m not afraid of spiders,” I told him. He responded: “You should be, they can be far more dangerous if they bite”. “Try telling that to Danger Mouse,” I wailed. He blocked holes up with socks. I am now moving stealthily around the house stamping my feet and whooping to warn him. I am waiting for his demise with bated breath. Clearly he is waiting for mine too. It looks like mine is more imminent. There has been no sign of a corpse. I will continue to shout and stamp.