No offence to my current flatmates, but when I used to picture my life at 30 it wasn’t living with two 25-year-olds in a cold basement flat where we’re too afraid to open the windows because it’s raining cats and frogs.
No, that’s not a typo. Thanks to my upstairs neighbours’ pond, there are adult frogs and, as of recent weeks, their little offspring are quite literally falling in through our skylights. First-world-leafy-south-west-London problems, you might say, but you try emptying your trainer to find that pebble is actually the carcass of a poor baby frog.
