I give my landlord notice to vacate the flat. He arranges his bull-dog face into something that I assume should be concern.
Is it the leaking pipes, he asks. I tell him, no, the last time my carpet got soaked, it was sunny, I hung it out in the sun to dry. Is it the overflowing sewage outside my kitchen window? I say no, the smell of shit chased my appetite away, and I’m now six kilos lighter for it.
I don’t tell him that I’m being driven out by the cockroach I found this morning, comfortably ensconced in my underwear drawer.