No, I lie. No other adventures.
My house smells like poo. That is all.
It didn’t smell like poo an hour ago. Then I left to pick up some books from work, and upon returning, what do you know: Welcome to pootown.
I’m pretty sure that our neighbours are laying down manure (there’s a new house a couple of doors down), but I’m not willing to go find out for sure because my nostrils have now adjusted to the stench that currently fills my living room, and I’m scared that if I escape the smell for even a second, I’ll be back to square one, retching over my cup of tea (a bit over dramatic, I know. I didn’t really retch. I don’t think I’ve ever retched over anything other than the “toilets” on the Inca Trail, and occasionally when brushing my teeth on an empty stomach).
Now I’m just scared that someone is going to come to the front door and think that it’s ME that smells like an animal’s bum. I might have to shut the front door now, and do my old “hide next to the bed” trick if someone comes knocking.
