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There's times I think I'm the most unfortunate housekeeper in all of London.
Me good pillows were the least of it. Mr. Basil is extremely untidy; you'd think he was half-rat the way he hangs on to things and piles 'em up in his bedroom. (The sparrow skull gave me a fright the first time I went in there to dust.) There's foul-smelling bottles and beakers all over the dining table, his dreadful violin scraping at all hours, and subjects from every corner of mousedom dropping by to ask for help, also at every hour Providence sends.
I was so hoping that nice Dr. Dawson would steady Basil a bit – respectable old Army mouse, a quite normal fellow for Basil to befriend. But he's as bad in his own way, or Basil's madness has rubbed off on the Doctor, for they're off at every hour and back the same way. (I ruefully remind myself exactly what kind of doctor joins the Army and heads off to foreign lands instead of settling down with a steady practice in Town.)
But every time I feel put upon, I hear the ruckus coming from Sherlock Holmes and his landlady above us, and my heart goes out to that poor human woman. How I'd love to chat with Mrs. Hudson over tea and cheese biscuits.