why my mum is standing in my doorway, holding a salt shaker and threatening to evict me

My room is a funny old place to be at the moment. Aside from the obvious (it being the size of my armpit), it is now also the home of two important things - the first one being every item of clothing I own.

Because my chest of drawers and wardrobe are outside on the landing (they have to be - I told you it was small) I've needed to readjust my usual clearing out routine. I tend to follow the 'make a gigantic heap of everything you own and only put things back in their rightful place if they're necessary' regime but the fact that the landing is already occupied by my furniture means that every item of clothing I own is now in a gigantic heap on my bedroom floor. Which is to say, my bed, because I have no floor. My floor is where I keep my books. If I mention the only two things I own in any great amount are clothes and books (not make-up, DVDs, music, jewellery, nic-nacs, just clothes and books) then the picture may become clearer.

I've spent most of today rifling through the heap (or, Mount Fi, as it has been called) trying to whittle down the sheer amount of crap that I've accumulated. Half of it I don't even remember buying. Or 'obtaining'. Why do I have a 'Topshop Couture' grey lycra jumpsuit that doesn't fit me? Or a fluorescent blue 'Pavlov is my bitch' t-shirt? From which man did I once steal tartan boxer shorts? Is that shiny thing lurking underneath my favourite jeans actually a cape? Yes, it actually is. I conclude that working in a charity shop is actually a bad career move for those living in anything less than a house sized wardrobe.

Lots of hard work. But unfortunately most of Mount Fi is still there, because of the second very important thing. Stan.

Stan is a giant African land snail, or 'achatina fulica' and it's important to note that despite all the very interesting qualities this breed possesses (such as being able to crawl along the edge of a razor blade without getting hurt) and their many advantages as a pet (such as being able to eat pretty much anything), there's only one reason why I now own one:

When I was pissed one time last Easter I thought having a pet snail would be the funniest thing ever and convinced my snail-breeding friend to save me the next egg that her snail (Vince) and her mate's snail (Fibonnaci) created. Not really fully comprehending that I was swearing the life of another into my hands.

Don't get me wrong, I'm very much on board with this. A creature that moves at 0.004mph and positively thrives on neglect is well up my street as an irresponsible human being. But I wasn't prepared for just how distracting a gastropod can be. When it gets quiet, I can hear him eating. He's got a little mouth and everything, and if I stroke his shell he comes out all 'who the hell are you?' and looks at me.

What I'm getting at here is, I think, a perfectly rational and valid explanation for why I spent most of my day off sitting on a mountain of badly matched and hideous clothing holding an enormous snail in my hand and cooing. Is that so wrong?