Last year, my mother sent me a box of treats, just like one of those care packages I used to read about in Archie comics. She knew it would take about a week to get to me, but was so excited about the fact that, after 2 years, I could finally eat these beautiful things:
After about a week and a half, it finally turned up outside our front door (we had the middle and top floors of the building – there was only one other tenant on the ground floor). It felt light. I opened the box to find a lot of empty packets of Mini Eggs, and a large multipack bag of Mini hob-nobs that was empty, save for one little intrepid packet that had made it through, hiding in the far corner. Turning over the box, I saw a pretty violently-picked hole through the couple of inches-thick cardboard (and sellotape), and assumed that maybe it had been damaged in transit.
Nope. My husband assured me it was squirrels, as he pointed to our front garden that was now strewn with the carcasses of those little blue packets.
Those little shits.
I had to explain to my surprisingly upset mother that I did manage to get one tiny bag of chocolate hob nobs, but the greedy little bastards had devoured the other 19 or so packets and 3 entire bags of sugary chocolate. I kept hoping they’d come back, especially after a trashy dog-trainer with two giant, ill-behaved dogs moved in downstairs, but they never did. Thankfully, they didn’t grace us with the traces of what I can only hope was some truly bowel-shredding squirrel diarrhoea.
Ever since then, I have truly hated the destructive, selfish little beasts. Look at this fucker in the above picture, mooning me today, mocking me, up to something. Usually squirrels politely scamper away in search of a princess to dress but not these American ones. They know.
Last night, I took the rubbish out. Between my nascent cold-producing tissue mountain and the feathers from my Hallowe’en costume, I had managed to contribute to two full bags of trash. My landlady told me to just leave them in the front hall as the barrels were awkward to get to, and she would just put them out. I voiced my concerns about the possibility of the destructive little twats ripping open the bags, but she assured me it would be fine.
Well, this morning, I woke up to this:
The little brats struck again, and with typical American violent vermin arrogance. I was seething. It brought back horrible memories of that grey morning in HobNob-Nam. I never got over losing those delicious chocolate-y oaty treats.
I know I should have been mad at USPS for doing its usual bang-up job and just dumping packages that required a signature onto my downstairs neighbour’s porch (despite the label clearly stating “Apt 2”). But I was genuinely looking forward to those hob nobs, and I can’t even look at a packet of McVities’ finest without thinking of those gluttonous, soul-destroying, biscuit-thieving, morale-crushing, homesickness-inducing little arseholes.