Karma

Karma is the good ole rule that what goes around eventually comes around. In other words, since I have already poisoned a few dozen mice in my lifetime, I am bound to be trampled to death by an emormous rabid mouse brigade ready to make me pay for my sins. Sorry guys. I can't help it if I'm not allowed cats where I live. And come on, the way you leave your little pellet poohs everywhere is just totally unsanitary in the kitchen.....

But seriously. I am beginning to believe in Karma, based on a glorious piece of info we've just received. Our flatmate and friend Anna, is also the owner of our flat. And she happens to be headed overseas to Canada and then to Costa Rica, meaning that all 3 of us will be abandoning our posts in our South London abode in early August. Who should be moving in to replace us?

Two. Single. Young. Men. DJ's by night, and by the sounds of it, slackers on loads of drugs by day. One of their demands upon moving in was that they had room in the basement for two huge decks. Two huge decks where they can mix their tracks for the clubs. Two huge decks blaring and thumping away in our basement, where only a paper thin wall separates our apartment from our neighbors bedroom. Remember them? Neighbors From Hell?

Oh sweet bliss. If that ain't karma then I don't know what is. I hear coming back as a mouse isn't really so bad. And I hear all that mouse poison actually tastes pretty damn good even if it kills you.