Through absolutely no fault of my own, I’ve had mice in my flat.

Fortunately, after an incredibly one-sided peace treaty, the mice are gone. My bachelor pad is back to being as quiet as the proverbial. No sign of life, if you exclude me. No sign of a life, if you include me.

But rodents are like the 2012 Olympics. For worser or worse, their legacy remains. And we’re constantly reminded their legacy remains. Just as we were told, from bid to Beckham, that the main point of them was so there would be a legacy which could remain. And inspire future legacies to remain. Presumably referring to the next London Olympics and not referendums.

So no matter how much money leasing the Olympic Stadium to West Ham brings in. No matter how high the mice’s reparations were finally set. I still know, they’ve been here. Crapping on stuff.

But shit on your skirting boards can be an opportunity. (As well as a test of strength as you struggle to get the thin nozzle on and off the vacuum).
I noticed the turds had only been laid in places I didn’t go.
Shit creek wasn’t up. But down. Down behind a chest of drawers which stores legacy objects that would make a charity shop’s bin look thought through. The marquee items are:

• A black mussels pot. It has “Moules” written on the side in the tacky lettering that comes off after the first wash. The writing is completely intact.
• An eclectic collection of company branded water bottles, hot cups, mugs and flasks. With which you could reconstruct both my and my sister’s CVs.
• A shopping basket (likely M&S but unconfirmed).

The skirting board behind this tat cryochamber was the main dumping ground. There were seven cars parked. All on double yellows. And now, the traffic warden was in town!

Also. Through absolutely no fault of my own, I’d recently been under pressure from my mum to stop eating takeaways so much (health, cost, etc. etc.) and cook myself. That clearly wasn’t an option. So I’d been looking for an excuse. But it would have to be good to fool her.

Post skirting board, I continued tentatively looking round the flat for crap. I followed my nose.
The only place I was excited to search was the hob/oven area.
If I could just find crap there, I could say to my mum, “Look Mum. I was about to start cooking. I’ve even got a packet of Moules Marinières in the fridge. But now there’s shit everywhere.”
I looked harder than a best man who’s lost the ring. But the whole kitchen was spotless! It made no sense. I never went there.
Then I realised my mum had already foreseen this. In an earlier negotiation with her, I reluctantly agreed to buy strawberry milk from M&S and have it in the fridge rather than order thrice weekly milkshakes on Deliveroo.
But the fridge is in the kitchen! So every time I have a nice long glug of strawberry milk (straight from the bottle) I’m inadvertently stopping animals from pooing in my oven.
She’s a wily old fox.

This is when I have the thought that, in hindsight, disturbs me. But you have to understand at the time I was trying to rebuild a flat which had been terrorised to such an extent that even a West Ham fan wouldn’t rent it.

I’m looking at a kitchen from a Mr. Muscle advert. I need poo to be here.
If I turn around, there is a treasure trove of mouse droppings behind a manky chest of drawers. I need poo to not be here.

I put on a pair of Marigolds, which tripled the items of clothing I was wearing (counting gloves as two). I walked resignedly to the shit heap. But as I got close to it I caught a reflection of myself. There’s a mysterious full length mirror (which looks a lot like those in M&S changing rooms) wedged between the chest of drawers and the electricity meter. What I saw wasn’t pretty.
A bloke with more mussels than muscles.
A person who doesn’t like opening new packets for no good reason, opening a new packet of Marigolds to put poo in his oven.
A self-professed ‘boxers man’ in his only pair of Y-fronts.
A son going against his mother’s wishes.

I couldn’t do it. I stripped back down to my smugglers.
I opened Whatsapp to tell my mum that I love her, and thank her for having my best interests at heart.
But she’d already messaged me.
“Your sister wants my old full length mirror. Do you still need it?”
That wily old fox.
“No, just finished with it. Not going to put shit in my oven anymore.”
Two blue ticks. No reply.