Why does it always rain on me?

It seems the E.A.Marshall curse has struck again - no sooner do I bleat about the joys of Spring, then I wake up to grey skies, damp pavements and an over-whelming urge to stay in bed. Luckily, simple soul that I am, all it took was a bit of old school Whitney on the bus this morning and I was as happy as Larry.

I realise that bopping along to ‘How will I know, if he really loooooooooves me’ might not rock everyone’s world so, because I’m such a generous, kind-hearted, caring and extremely modest individual, I thought I’d cheer up the rest of you by letting you feast your eyes on a truly brilliant tale from our forthcoming title Middle Class Nightmares:

About six years ago some friends of mine asked me to house sit for them while they went on a long holiday to Vietnam. I had just finished studying and had nowhere to live at the time so it was perfect for me. The three weeks were almost like heaven, and luckily I got on wonderfully with the pet dog in my charge – until inevitable sitcom catastrophe. About five days before they were due back, he began looking really unhappy and unwell, and started being sick everywhere, so I took him to the vet. When the vet had checked him over, he came out to give me the bad news – the animal was in agony, and there was nothing he could do – it was going to die. I had to take it home with me and try and look after it that night, and then bring it in again tomorrow to be put down. In between horrible bouts of crying, I phoned my friends in Vietnam and broke the news to them. They were devastated, but they understood it wasn’t my fault.

 I asked them what I should do with the body – I had assumed (as had the vet) that I would leave the body at the surgery to be disposed of, but the owners were distraught at the idea. They really wanted to bury him in the back garden and begged me to bring the body back home. I said yes, of course, but didn’t point out that I don’t have a car. So, the next day I had to bring a bag that was big enough for him (by surreptitiously measuring him against it) along with me when we went to the vet. When it was done, I was given the body and had to cram it into this enormous rucksack I’d brought along. He only just fit, I had to really squeeze to get his head in, and when I put the bag on it was agonisingly heavy. I caught a cab to the tube and just about managed to get the bag on the train but when I got off at the other end, after the barriers there was a flight of stairs out of the station. I must have been clearly struggling because this guy came up and offered to help me with it. I was incredibly grateful, and as we went up the stairs we chatted.

‘God, it’s heavy,’ he said. ‘What have you got in here?’

‘Oh,’ I said, thinking rapidly. ‘I’m between flats and staying at a friend’s for a week. Just stuff – clothes, shoes, books, my laptop…’

The second I mentioned the word laptop he was off, sprinting up the steps, and out into the London street with the bag on his back.

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