Tables turned...

For the first time in our relationship, McG is a kept man, currently perfecting the art of home-husbandry.

He is on the prowl for a job, hell, he's so much more employable than me, but has had even fewer bites and is kind of enjoying the eruption of his inner Mr Handyman, fixing everything that needs fixing in the apartment, and trust me, there's plenty....

...we've already had signs of the diabolical trinity - kitchen mice, cockroaches and ants.

...we bought a massive 3-piece lounge suite, roughly the size of Burkina Faso which needed prompt returning when we discovered my feet couldn't touch the floor when I sat upright (but it was sooooo comfy as a slump chair, bemoans the lady with the deformed spine).

...there's no drain for the washing machine. Apparently the former tenants used to hang the pipe in the shower recess, which would be fine except the shower leaks and we had a near catastrophe when the whole bathroom went Noah on the ant army camped on the floor.

...we've got Jehovies living in the apartment out back. I guess they're more prepped to fix us than the other way around, though.

But all the S P A C E. It's fabulous. The apartment is really convenient, near a tram, train station and bus. We can hang up our croses. We can have showers without having to dry off in the genkan. We can turn off the heating and the place will still be warm. People tell me the mice are not as robust in Australia. And we have ratsak, not that pissy poison that our Japanese mouse ate for breakfast with a nice cup of Irish Breakfast tea...