Memoir Blast 15 — Foil, Fumigation & Fleas

 

Memoir Blast 15 — Foil, Fumigation & Fleas

(The Flat That Lied To Me)

When we bought our first flat at 21, I walked in and saw tiny bits of foil stuck to the walls. Everywhere. I didn’t question it. I didn’t analyse it. I just accepted it as information.

The woman selling the flat looked me dead in the eye and said,

“Oh, that’s to stop the cat scratching the walls.”

And because I’m ND — audio ADHD, trust dial turned up too high — I believed her. Filed it neatly in the truth drawer.

Foil = cat deterrent.

End of.

Four months later we move in.

Within the first hour I realise she was a complete liar.

The foil wasn’t stopping scratching.

The foil was hiding it.

Every corner shredded by cats.

And here’s the ND kicker: I didn’t link cats to fleas.

Why would I.

My brain doesn’t do hidden consequences.

If someone says “foil for scratching,” I take it literally.

So we move in with:

• carpets already full of fleas

• no furniture

• a plastic table and plastic garden chairs borrowed from Rich’s parents, mildew included

• and my trust in humanity slightly dented

Then comes the sofa saga.

Rich and his dad go to a farm with a trailer and bring back a £15 sofa. Huge. Green. A proper 90s triumph. We put it in the middle of the empty room like it was a landmark. Sat on it for one weekend, proud of ourselves.

Then reality hits:

The barn wasn’t full of fleas — it was too cold.

Fleas don’t live in the cold.

So the fleas were already in our carpets.

We just didn’t know.

Which meant we now had:

• a flea infested flat

• and a flea infested sofa

The sofa was promptly burnt (tipped, but in my head it’s always burning).

As you do.

(My fire starting era came later — this was more love than rage.)

And because I followed the rules — instead of ripping the carpets up like a sensible rebel — we bought fumigation bombs. The kind you set off and leave the house like you’re in a crime drama. Did it twice.

No Amazon.

No next day anything.

Just 90s logistics and a vet selling flea killing potions like contraband.

We lived with plastic chairs and a plastic table for six more months.

Then salvation:

A sofa and chair from Oggy’s attic in Aylesbury for £60.

No fleas.

Lasted five years.

And yes — we sold that flat with the same carpets.

The irony is not lost on me.

And honestly, that Oggy attic sofa deserves its own Memoir Blast.

Footnote for texture

I had just moved counties — with my son — starting our life as a three.

The adventure.

The huge ups, the huge downs.

But still better than staying in the same place with an empty suitcase of what ifs.