A rat, sat on the mat
This not a story I tell with pride. It is one filled with shame and trauma, but as the saying goes: a problem shared is a problem halved. By recounting this terror for you, I hope to finally be able to move on with my healing and put a cease to my nightmares for good.
Allow me to set the scene. It was an August bank holiday. In true British fashion, I had spent it as British people are legally bound to do - that is, having it right off. A glimpse of sun, a very damp BBQ, a couple of charred sausages - before you know it, you’re snorting spilled café patron off the table and rubbing salt in your gums. Or something like that. Anyway, you get the idea, it had been a big night.
Later that night (/morning), having lay down for a few minutes to stare optimistically at the ceiling, I decided the only thing that might soothe my wounds (both physical and mental) was a nice hot bath. There’s something about a bath that has the power to wash even the most shameful of sins away, and so I planned to soak until I resembled something like a prune. Climbing in, I breathed a sigh of relief as I slipped underneath the steaming water. A few moments later, my worries began to subside, my muscles relaxed, and I drew my knees up to gently rest my thumping head. That’s when I saw it.
A rat. Sat on the mat. No, not one of Dr. Seuss’ charming rhymes, a real-life rat; furry, toothy and sludge-brown, with a long worm of a tail. On the pink fluffy bathmat, a mere half a metre away, watching me (pervert) with his beady little eyes. Needless to say, I rose from the water and emitted a scream so terrifying the rat – clearly not having the calm morning it was anticipating either - shot back down the pipe entrance to the sink in a fluster.
There are worse things that could happen on no sleep and a hangover. But standing there in the bath, dripping wet and wondering if I had just started hallucinating, I somehow couldn’t think of any. I was traumatised, and so obviously spent the next few hours hysterically crying in my towel and parcel taping up the gaps around the bathroom door. To make matters worse, I was home alone, only adding to my paranoia and confusion. Luckily my best friend (equally hanging) was able to be there in ten minutes clutching the cure to all ills - Capri Sun, strawberry Ribena and a bag of Greggs vegan sausage rolls.
This should be the end of my story, but unfortunately not…
After confirming the first citing, days later I awoke to the sound of our new housemate rustling himself up a late-night snack in the kitchen. Thankfully, this time my housemates were home, so as we hid in our respective rooms, the girls peered through the glass above the doors to wait for our guest to leave. I did not peer. I had seen enough. Eventually, ratty sauntered – he was in no hurry – back into the bathroom to leave. But not before sharpening his teeth for fifteen minutes on the expanding foam our landlord had naively attempted to block his entry points with. I’ve never been to Hell, but I’m pretty sure it’s sound tracked by a rat munching down on some squeaky foam like it’s sweet and salty popcorn.
The rat still haunts my dreams, but thankfully has not made a personal appearance since the nice man from pest control paid us a visit. Is there anything to be learned from this story? If I was being spiritual, I might suggest this was the Universe’s way of punishing me for doing a very literal impression of Lindsay Lohan on that boat in Mykonos the night before. But believe me, Universe – I have learned my lesson.
Never have a bath the morning after.
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This funny tale was bought to you by dancer turned writer, Lizzie - aka the one and only, SKINT AND SKATTY.
Check out her Instagram (@skintandskatty) and website for more of her work.
