I hate Sunday nights. I never sleep. I don’t know why I get so wound up and can’t shut down, but it is worse on Sunday than on any other night of the week. Well, last night was nearly a dream for me; I was in bed at 10:00 and nearly fully asleep before 11:00.
And then the noises started.
I can’t even describe the noise. It wasn’t very loud, but neither is a dripping tap and I can’t sleep when that is happening either. My mind fixates on the sound (it is also why I can’t stand a ticking clock in the room. If I ever stay at your house and the batteries are out of the clock… sorry, that was me.) and I can’t sleep. This sound… I couldn’t figure out what it could be for the longest time. And then I got it in my head that it was probably Frank goofing around in the kitchen (which is also my bedroom). Once I had that in my head, I super-couldn’t-sleep.
Here’s the thing: I pay a lot of rent to live on my own in London. ON. MY. OWN. FRANK! And this is why… flatmates are often inconsiderate. Like Frank, looking for a snack long after the kitchen was closed. And I was double-pissed off because I had nearly been asleep before midnight on a Sunday night. Curses! So I flipped on the light and sure as hell, there was Frank, looking a wee bit sheepish and zoom! He ran behind the fridge. Idiot, that didn’t work last time. I moved the fridge again and he ran into the bathroom, confirming my suspicion that the bathroom floor-hole was his fast-track into my pad.
I’ve been asked by a few cruel people why I haven’t trapped and/or killed wee Frank. I haven’t killed any of my flatmates (yet, mind you) so I didn’t want to start with poor Frank. But waking me up after 10:00 on a Sunday when I have to get up at 6:00am is the last straw. So I stuffed his hole closed* with a bright orange recycling bag. I hope he gets the hint that he’s not welcome anymore.
*ew. THAT could be taken the wrong way!