Welcome to the jungle

There’s dirt and there’s dirt. Then there’s the bizarre.

Working in the Deep South London. Late nine o’clock finish and an early seven-thirty start the day after, a commute of three hours and kids being away on a school trip. Suddenly the on-site accommodation seemed rather attractive.  I duly paid the £25 rent and checked myself in.

The rooms were located in some derelict wing of the building. As I entered its dull corridors, I realised that my life hadn’t evolved much, if at all, since my student days, several decades ago.

The room could have been worse. It smelled, but only a little bit. On the floor, a worn and stained carpet. In the corner, a bed and there was a window that could open and close. When I threw my skinny body upon the mattress, flashbacks of a sleazy hostel in Hamburg flew through my head. Those springs just felt so familiar.

It was time for a quick before-bed-time-toast and I went into the kitchen just beside. There, the faint smell turned to a mild stink.

I’m the kind of guy that like to take a look around when I’m someplace new. A habit laid down from travelling in jungles when I was young. It was always wise to locate other possible creatures sharing your room before lights out. Most of them had many more legs than yourself, some none at all.  Life was exciting and unpredictable. As will soon show, it still is.

It seems to me that Deep South London also is a jungle of sorts. Ever been? You ought to visit someday. You know, good to get out of the comfort zone, challenge yourself, new horizons and all that jazz.

You’ll probably be alright, but then again; you might not. So far this year, a handful of staff members have been robbed very close to the hospital premises when walking home from their late shifts. Pushed down on the pavement and left laying helpless, looking pathetically on, as young darlings with a lack of daddy and decent breakfast in their lives, run off with their bags. In the Deep South, you should wear sturdy shoes and keep both your eyes and mind open.

Anyway, there I was in the staff accommodation’s kitchen, opening cupboard doors and pulling out drawers. The fridge was filled with food, but there were hardly any pots or pans about, the only two ones, cheap things in a sad state, were chained up in a cupboard and marked “do not touch”. Grumpily, I mumbled to myself over this tight and unfriendly attitude, pulled out the bottom drawer beside the cooker and then I didn’t do much more.

I just stood there, staring down. At three dead bodies, three dead mice in various states of decomposition. One with only half a head. And with poo all around.

The drawer next to had several old flour bags in it, clearly feasted on by all Surrey’s rodents, and, again, an abundance of this fascinating poo. I don’t know about you, but my shit comes out in all shapes and forms. Hard or soft, well-formed and contained stools or more splashy, anarchistic things. Mice droppings look exactly identical. Small brown slightly glossy and capsule-formed, like cloned turds. It’s impossible to tell one from the other. They got to have really well balanced guts, the small cuties, which is just the more impressive considering their diet. The term “fussy eater” certainly didn’t apply to these, who seemed to have been gnawing away on most of their surroundings, including their mate.

I’m not the precious type. I have eaten deep fried crickets. I’ve attended to bleeding wounds on swearing patients infected with Hepatitis A, B, C, D and E, F, G if there’s such.  I’ve slept on top of trucks and inside the back of trucks, sharing space with god knows what. I’ve even slept under trucks, goddammit. I don’t mind roughing it. But, sorry, I’m not having my toast surrounded with furry death. That’s not my cup of tea.

So, shutting the drawer with my foot, reversing towards the door which had closed behind me, just like in the movies, with my eyes fixed on the drawer in case a zombie mouse decided to return from the dead, I managed to make it out safely. Well outside the cursed kitchen, I realised that I had to have a photo of this. Being the only person in Barnet without a smart phone, I ran over to the new wing and into another little kitchen, much fresher, where a young female junior doctor (I can spot a junior doctor a mile away, there’s a mix of smugness, niceness and, usually, privilege about them) was attending her curry. As I stormed in, disturbing her cooking peace, her mouth tried to look friendly, but her eyes said: There’s a weirdo in my kitchen!

“Excuse me”, I said, “but I don’t have a smart phone and…
”Definitely weird! her eyes now concluded, and he’s taking up my precious time.
“Yes, just need a camera… Three dead mice… vast amounts of droppings… half a head…” I talked excitedly, some saliva probably spluttered and I might not have been entirely coherent. Reluctantly, she put the spoon down and covered the pot with a lid. Hesitating for second, like weighing the risk of her appetite getting spoiled, she then made up her mind and, with a very slight nod, gave her approval.  And off we were, back to the old wing through dimly lit corridors, with the shiny new iphone tightly clutched in the doctor’s hand.

Well inside the old kitchen, I snatched the phone and embarked on a passionate photo session. Several close ups where the camera almost touched the pale whiskers of the poor animals. “Yeah, that’s good”, I mumbled as I imagined clicking away film after film, crouching down around the pulled out drawer, saving this sight of death and hospital-hygiene disaster for future generations. After a good few minutes I glanced back to see if the lady needed fetching a glass of water or other. Women often get weak in situations like these.

“You alright?” I asked as I tried to fit a dead mouse and the NHS logotype into the same picture. The young lady had an unimpressed look on her face. There might have been a hand on the hip.

“Did my phone actually touch the mice?”, she asked coldly. I wanted to say “Babe, we sure came close, but not that close!”, with the deep voice of a man used to take control of situations, but instead the only thing I heard coming out of my mouth was a pathetic “of course not”, “sorry” and “thank you”, all delivered in an apologetic and over-polite manner and with that, the photo session was finished. I gave her my email address.

I’m still, several weeks later, yet to receive the photos. Maybe she thought I was hitting on her or maybe she wanted to make sure to be the first with the scoop, cashing in on a massive pay-out from the NHS gosh-we-are-so-sorry-this-will-never-happen-again-there-you-go-buy-yourself-something-nice-and-on-your-bike-now-and-shut-up-will-you? department. Chances are she just got the email address wrong. Too bad, because there really were three dead mice in that drawer. On a bed of mouse droppings. One with only half a head.

The next morning, I was in the corridor when a man came out of his room next to mine. He walked up to the kitchen door and was just about to enter when I managed to stop him.
“Sorry”, I said, holding the door back, “but you better not use this kitchen.”
“But I always use this kitchen!” said the surprised man, glancing down on my hand on top of his.
“You better not”.
“Why?”, he demanded.
“I’ll show you!” Resolutely, I pushed the door and took three determined steps into the smelly kitchen. I bent down by the now familiar drawer, pulled it out, turned to the man and asked him to have a look. Quietly, he peered down the drawer for a few seconds, his tall body leaning forward slightly. Then he turned to me and, still looking a little surprised, he said:
“There’s three now!”

David Ingemarsson 2018