Seconded.
I moved into a rented room in Ealing that used to house immigrants. I was desperate so I took one look at it, saw a divan bed with just a mattress, a cabinet, a fridge, a wardrobe and then quickly signed the contract.
I lay on the bed, slept for a couple of hours and woke up to find a load of little silver things wriggling on the mattress. I also found the little flag brown bastards as well, squashed a few and saw bright red blood come out of them.
It was the only time that I asked my Mum to come home, but she said no and told me to ring maintenance. She cried when she saw how I was living when she visited a few days later with provisions.
Called the estate agent, who surprisingly picked up. He sent a maintenance guy who sprayed my room and my entire belongings with this expired insect killer, which stank of chemicals and was greasy. He sprayed it a few more times over the coming days and I kept finding them on my mattress, but dead. I also found a few on the walls of the toilet on the top floor. They moved from room to room.
I spent my first night there sleeping on the train that ran from London Paddington to Reading, wearing my work clothes that stank of years old expired insect killer and occasionally flicking bedbugs out of my hair and off my shoulders.
It was hands down the lowest point of my life, and the sheer idea of bed bugs still freaks me out.