In six terrifyingly short weeks, we have a new tenant arriving. A newborn child who will expect somewhere decent to doss down, perform ablutions, maybe invite a few friends over to suck on dummies and generally just, y'know, chill out.
Instead we have a room filled with old mattresses, empty boxes, a drawer full of odd socks, some handy coils of rope and a bottle of 20 year old single malt. This sounds like the room of a 15 year old boy (except instead of the single malt it would be a half empty bottle of gatorade with mouldy bits floating on top).
If I were this baby, I would just stay where I am till these people who call themselves parents get their act together. Sure there isn't much leg room, but there's cereal on tap and the woman sure knows how to get a rocking good waddle going on!