As this very moment, while I type in the living room (the old computer is still in my bedroom) a horrible, most diabolical creature is hidden somewhere in close vicinity to me. The simultaneous arrival of Rufus and the warm weather has meant I leave the glass door open at night, which has consequently made me vulnerable to intruders of the most foul kind. Enormous, black moths have seized upon the opportunity and penetrated the gauze curtain and let themselves into my home and grow fat on the woolen clothes and bed-linen stuffed in the cupboards. Now when I say enormous, let me assure you, that no exaggeration has been applied to this relative adjective. These hideous invaders are the the size of small sparrows or exotic butterflies but unlike their dainty and charming counterparts, these are clogged with filth and flap about hopelessly with no sense of direction. Under attack by a swatting tea-towel they will actually fly at you rather than away from you. They’re either completely blind (from all that filth) or so psychologically astute that they can sense my terror and realise that I’ll eventually surrender and run off, flailing the tea towel around my head in a squealing mess. It’s happened twice, the first encounter was at 6 in the morning. Half-awake and not of my senses I made an admirable swipe but although it was wounded, it escaped without further injury. It was only later in the day after calling on reinforcements (Max and the vacuum cleaner) that we captured it with powerful suction and Max’s precise aim with the long wand. One could only imagine that its last moments were the best a moth could wish for, in the dark and dust-filled confines of a vacuum bag. The second altercation resulted in a two-way victory where, by cunning strategy and immense bravery I coaxed it back out the glass door.
This time, however, has proved extremely trying. After seeing ‘the thing’ three times, at every opportunity it has managed to elude me and now I sit in fear as to when it will re-appear again. Tonight I will most certainly have nightmares of it landing on my face in my sleep and laying eggs in my ears.
It’s hard to be peaceful towards these creatures. They make my skin crawl like nothing else, a cockroach, at least, scuttles away when it knows the downward crash of a shoe is impending and I’ve picked up spiders to frighten people for sport. But these blasted moths, which have probably grown so freakishly large in their caterpillar stage decimating my basil, turn me into a hopeless wreck.
Rufus sound asleep and unperturbed by the attack. Still with stitches but in remarkably good spirits.
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