Six weeks ago Mother Earth decided to rudely evict me from my beautiful home on Salford Quays after three months of rain water, twigs, leaves and empty condom packets (how did they ever get on the roof) fell through my ceiling and ruined my flat. I quickly hot-footed it from the Quays to the Locks, but have failed to fall in love with my new gaffe in quite the same way. It could be something to do with the furniture the landlord has chosen. Mirrored wardrobes (positioned in the right way this could be a plus point), black leather sofas and silver painted kitchen cupboards make for a very masculine looking apartment, and I don't likey. It's Three Men and a Baby minus the random cartoon drawings on the walls.
So after a month of pondering on exactly what it was that was preventing my house from becoming a home, the idea was put to me that I should get a tortoise. And so I did. His name is Herbert, he is fourteen months old, and sits comfortably in the palm of my hand. Despite dropping him and almost drowning him - accidents on both counts, of course animal lovers - he is still alive and kicking.
The irony is that the person who suggested I should get the tortoise warned me that they may be a little high maintenance, when in actual fact he (and for the purposes of this blog we will call him The Boy), The Boy, is the thing giving me the most jip. Herbert on the other hand is doing wonders for my social life, my pulling power and my diet. Friends who I haven't seen in an age are suddenly dropping by, I have been invited on three dates from neighbours after being spotted on my balcony with the tortoise (thankfully this is not the place from which I dropped him) and I now have a constant supply of vegetables in the fridge. And he sleeps twenty hours a day. The perfect flatmate.
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