It’s scary in my bedroom. Bugs crawl on me in the night. Creatures thunder above my head. I wake up screaming. Husband is getting a bit sick of the screaming, but what would you do if a cockroach landed on you at 1.30am? A big, fat, 10cm-long cockroach … It can’t be a household hygiene problem, not with the astronomical fees I’m paying the cleaners each week. It happened twice the other night. Once at 11.30pm – ahh, ahhh, AHHHHHHH!!!!! Thump! Thump! Thump! Then, at 1.30pm – ahh, ahhh, AHHHHHHH!!!! Another fricking cockroach fluttered onto me. Lights on, lots of smacking around with rolled up newspaper inserts. As an added bonus, a daddy long legs was dangling centimetres from my face. Slammed him too. It’s a bit trippy, which has led Husband to question my mental health. BUT THEY DO EXIST, HUSBAND. THEY ARE CRAWLING ON ME. YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE ME, HUSBAND. I’ve taken to sleeping with the sheet over my head. Quite claustrophobic. I feel like Ryan Reynolds in Buried (as opposed to feeling like a bit of Ryan Reynolds, a far more delectable proposition). And it does nothing to block the possum noise. Bloody possums are using my bedroom roof as a racetrack. I always thought possums were little and cute, but these buggers sound like fully grown men jogging across the tiles in their work boots. When they’re not racing, they’re shagging. They make this weird, gutteral hissing/coughing noise as they copulate on the back deck. I feel like I’m camping in the Kalahari. I keep expecting David Attenborough to start commentating. And don’t get me started on the Not Neighbourly Neighbours. Party time. Every fricking night. Don’t they ever get tired? I’m knackered. (But not hallucinating.)
DIET LOG: I’d rather not say.
WHAT THE SCALES SAID: Well bugger me, 68.6kg.
TONIGHT’S MENU: Sister is cooking me dinner. Something diety, I expect. Apparently she ate too much over Chrissie too.
housegoeshome 
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