To continue for a bit on my theme from last entry - the joys of living out of home - I would like to recount the saga of the mouse.
When I moved in to Maison d'Erskineville, the guy whose room I was moving in to while he jetted around the world for six months hadn't quite left yet, despite the fact that he was no longer paying rent and I was living in his room. That is, his stuff was in our dining room in boxes and he was sleeping on the floor. He was having trouble with visas and stuff like that so we were cutting him a lot of slack, but despite all of this, it was becoming increasingly annoying having boxes of clothes, food and other things (?) in our eating space, looking ugly.
