Last night I'm out at after work drinks and I get this text from Mark:
"Lenny pooed on the floor"
Normally this wouldn't be a problem, you get home, there's a poo on the floor, you pick it up, sniff it, lick it, take a bite out of it and ask "hey mark, is this poo??"
But this was no ordinary night, they were doing a house inspection for prospective buyers of the flat, and there in the hallway would have been the unspoken nugget.
I quickly texted Mark back:
"I hope they don't think it was us"
I don't know what is worse, them thinking we shit in the hallway - or that we are happy to live with shit in the hallway. Plus it was right in the doorway when you walk in, so the real estate guy and the buyer would have opened the door to a nugget and them presumably stepped over it and pretended it didn't exist. But how can you pretend a poo doesn't exist. It's right there and everyone knows its poop.
I think Mark and I should embrace the Nugget and start calling ourselves Cletis and Jolene.
Start hanging out tampons on the curtain railing: "Them's for recycling"