Two weeks today, and we’re out of here.
I mean, it’s a lovely flat, and all, but, you know, we’ve been here a year, and it’s time to move on, we’ve run out of room for books, it would be nice to be somewhere a bit more sparsely furnished where we can start buying furniture together and, and well, also our landlady is selling the place, so we have no choice.
Almost immediately, though, we found another place – you know, friend of a friend, that sort of thing, and we only had to look at half a dozen of the world’s most expensive slumholes first.
I’m so exctited, I want to pack. It’s not a good idea to pack. I have to physically stop myself from packing. Because, frankly, while we have quite a lot of stuff, we don’t have that much stuff, not two weeks packable amount of stuff, and we’d have to spend 12 days sitting among boxes and having to unpack to find spoons.
Of course, the other problem is that if the boxes are just sitting there, prone, little curious creatures might investigate them and try and make houses in them, and then, you see, we would end up moving the MICE to the NEW HOUSE.
And what would could possibly be worse? Taking them with us? Oh, the very thought!…
Everything’s tied up nicely, we’ve found ourselves the most mouse-unlikely new flat – new building, third floor, all floors and interior recently done, no garden – everything we could possibly think of to have NO MICE. Not that we ever thought that there were ever going to be so many here, I mean, I’ve done my best, I’ve kept things SO clean, and SO neat, and yet back they come, back and back and back and back and back and back and back, and they won’t Go Away, and they Won’t Die, no matter WHAT we do, and I just hate them and hate them and hate them and oh bugger, I’ve started talking about the twatting mice again.
I’ll start over.