You’d think if I were to ask you;

Hey, bro, what the fuck crawled under your floor and died?

I’d be speaking with marvellous wit, tempting your mind’s eye with a poetic play of prose and that sexy deep voice of mine. But no. I’m speaking literally here. Something, I am guessing a rat, crawled under my floor boards and proceeded to shuffle off its tiny mortal coil, leaving behind a haunting odour which could only be eloquently described as “a mixture of jockstrap, compost pale and shit”.

That’s what my room smells like.

You’d imagine living on a floor directly above a butcher, I would have been positively accepting of the smell of decaying flesh. Alas, for all the nights of being awoken by the glittering sounds of knives being sharpened and meat hooks being hung, I have only grown accustomed to the smell of the meat-smoking facility “out back”. And as I sit here at 2am, following a previous night’s sleep totalling 3 hours, finishing a website that has to be done right now, I can only imagine how peaceful it would be to be snuggled up, listening to the rain fall gently outside as I laid rotting under the floorboards.