When it all gets a tad whifey....

Well it's been well over a month since I opened this blog and the first time when I have finally managed to do some writing on it. In the space of a month, I 've managed to break up with my boyfriend of six years, find a gorgeous new flat and move from Glasgow to Edinburgh. Not living with my gay cat Rupert and my hairy ex in a shoebox of a flat where the sun doesn't dare to shine, I am now sharing a fab flat with four others, all foreign (two french, a pole and a german). Needless to say, the french do smell, I can't stand the german and well the pole is looking for an English wife.

Let me explain myself here - for some reason people on the continent do not believe in either a closet or a cupboard in which to place your shoes. Instead, they insist on aerating their dung infested trinkets in the hallway, outside their door. Now, one once in a while. OK I can suffice - two - is getting a tad extreme - three - I have to hold my breathe - but when we get to ten pairs - well - even the mice have been scared away. Now, normally I tend to hold my breathe, but in the next couple of days I can see myself absent mindly throwing them out the window - oops, I wonder how that got there?????? I almost thought to myself, 'Thank God!', when one of the french guys asked me something about whifey. Whifey? Yes, I nodded my head in agreement, something definately was a tad whifey. Hallaleyuah I thought. He finally has come to terms that his feet were a tad whifey. But an hour past, and two hours past and still the hall was whifey. A day later, it was still whifey. Then he came up to me and asked - Why still? Where is the whifey? So, I pointed to his shoes. It turned out he was talking about the WIFI.