Of mice-catchers and mentals

I don't even know where to start. Remember how I said that my sanity wouldn't take any more problems? The universe has decided to test that theory. In the early hours of Friday morning, an escaped mental patient used a spade to break into my house. He put together a meal for four people, made up of beansprouts and tinned peaches, moved loads of stuff around and generally made himself at home. Most disturbingly, I found one of my hammers in my bedroom, suggesting that he'd armed himself with it before investigating the upstairs bedrooms. He also had a knife and my spare door keys on his person when the police picked him up. I had planned to be at home that night, but had gone for a drink with a friend on a whim, and stayed on his sofa when it got late. I've never been so relieved to have made a spur of the moment decision. My mum had to call me at work to let me know what had happened, and that they were coming down to help me sort things out. They had hoped to get things cleared up before I got back, to save me from the upset of seeing it, but the scene of crime officers were otherwise engaged so we had to be careful not to disturb the evidence. It's all ridiculously traumatic and, even though the house is fully secure now, I'm a little concerned about being alone there when my parents go back to the Midlands tomorrow.

To add to the fun, my cat picked the same time to give birth to three kittens in the tea towel basket under the kitchen sink. Thanks for that Molly. If anyone wants a kitten, there's one tabby and two black and white, and they'll be available to take home in about six weeks. Free to good homes.