I don't like insects

My regular reader will know that I hate insects to such an extent I think it might well be pathological. I shouldn’t really though, given that I am technically a country girl. I grew up in a small village which was a good half an hour’s drive from town and fifteen minutes from the next small village plagued by all manner of fauna, and flora. Oddly.

But instead of living in an idyllic cottage or other picture postcard village dwelling we lived on a housing estate on the edge of village; a sprawling mess of cul-de-sacs and winding alleys ways encroaching on corn fields which the farmers burnt down in early autumn. So it was a little less rural than you might think.

There are a couple of good things about growing up in the countryside; I know a lot about wildlife, having been harassed by it during my formative years, and I don’t get all dewy eyed when faced with large expanses of grass and gently rolling hills like city types do. I stride forth confidently. That is until one of our insect brethren leaps enthusiastically for my face, intent on scarring me for life or inflicting some worse fate up on me.

This time of year is particularly difficult given the sheer volume of crane flies which find their way into our flat. I researched carefully last night what it is about that disturbs me about them as two if them fitzed up and down the living room wall.

I think it’s the fact that their legs come of so easily.

We are currently plagued by enormous spiders as well. When I took the spider register last night there were a grand total of seventeen spiders spanning more that a centimetre in my house. Many of them at least three centimetres across. And that was only the ones I could see. This doesn't bear thinking about.

Then there are the moths, the woodlice, the earwigs and the snails. I really hate those big fat furry moths as well. I remember when tD and I had only been together for a month at the very most. We were in bed when an enormous hawk-moth came through the window, attracted by the warm glow of the bedside lamp. I was hysterical, properlyhysterical in a most Victorian fashion, and had to be calmed down with brandy. I’m telling you; it flew at me with murder in its huge black eyes.

Apparently they’re more afraid of me than I am of them.

I find that very hard to believe.

That dragonfly story

The other morning I was walking up to the little roundabout at the top of Park Avenue North, you know the one – just at the entrance to the park up from the clubhouse – not St Paul’s Avenue at all. It was a lovely day and I had taken my cardigan off to better enjoy the pleasant morning sunshine. In the park, just a short hop over the traffic island across the road, joggers and dog walkers were staggering and strolling through the sunshine and shadows. A pity to spoil such a day with a trip to the office, but there you are.

I could hear a sound, like a distant motorbike so I slowed to look both ways. There was no motorbike. I looked up to cross the road safely. Then I saw it.

It was enormous.

It was coming straight for me.

It was obviously a giant killer dragonfly as normal dragonflies don’t have bodies the size footballs and the wing span of a light aircraft. It was olive green in colour, as though it were wearing camouflage gear, and in the time it took me to make these brief observations it had surged closer, in a head on attack.

I stopped and did the sidewalk shimmy. The one I do when approaching I’m someone else on the pavement and I don’t know which way they’re going to move and don’t want to bump into them. In case I catch something. The giant killer dragonfly just adjusted it flight path and headed straight for me.

Five seconds till impact.

Four seconds till impact.

Three seconds till impact.

I hit the ground, my bag spilling, keys tumbling into the gutter. It was still coming for me.

Two seconds till impact.

One second till impact.

...

And then it had gone.

Now, there are two possibilities here:

1. I hallucinated a giant killer dragonfly and over ten assorted joggers and dog walkers saw me hurl myself on to the pavement for no reason at all and lie there flapping my limbs and gums for a minute and a half.

2. A giant killer dragonfly has entered my body somehow and is still inside me buzzing around and around, getting the way of all my major organs preventing them from functioning correctly and working it’s evil metamorphosing power over my feeble human form and then slowly so no one will notice or possibly care I shall become iller and iller and iller until one day I try to get out of bed and find that my legs have joined together in a hideous scaly dragonfly abdomen and my arms have become long wings made of razor wire and I shall be a giant killer dragonfly then and be overcome with the terrible terrible urge to eat my family without favva beans or chianti, fine or otherwise.

Either are too awful to contemplate.

The big dragonfly tease

In lieu of the dragonfly story, here is an mp3 of a song Banksy put on those doctored Paris Hilton CDs. You know all about that right? (via kottke)

A Surfeit of Squirrels (8)

Me: What are you doing? (pause) Hey, I said what are you all doing? What’s with the placards and banners?
Squirrel: We are protesting.
Me: What about?
Squirrel: You.
Me: Me?
Squirrel 1: Yeah, you.
Me: Why?
Squirrel 2: Because of your stupid blog.
Me: What about it?
Squirrel 3: Read the banner. Just read the banner.
Me: ‘ Blog more squirels stuff.’ You know you’ve spelt squirrel wrong.
Squirrel 4: You can’t even spell stupid. That’s how stupid you are, ctupid. Ctupid, ctupid. And it was in the title.
Squirrel 5: You've posted loads and not one thing about us. What about us, man. You're only where you are because of us. We made you, and we can break you as well.
Me: I’ve never seen you guys like this before. You’re actually…upset. Rather than just scary and angry.
Squirrel 4: Yeah whatever. Stupid ctupid blog.
Squirrels: Blog more squirels stuff, blog more squirels stuff, blog more squirels stuff, blog more squirels stuff.
Me: Hey, come on. Don’t be like that. I’ll blog some squirrel stuff.
Squirrel 2: You better. ‘Cause if you don’t we’ll tell the Sweeney about the Prime Minister.
Me: You did it, not me.
Squirrel 2: He’s in the boot of your car though, ain’t he? There’s nothing to tie us to the scene of the crime.
Me: I think I liked it better when you were marching and chanting.
Squirrel 2: Get blogging, lanky.

(pause)

Bastard: Madame Froosh? I don’t think your blog is stupid.
Me: Thank you, Bastard. You’re very kind.
Bastard: Give us a kiss then.

(pause)

Me: Ew.

Wandering a way to work

There were so many distractions on the way to work this morning. It is a miracle (and also a tragedy) that I managed to get here before dusk.

I remembered that on my route to work I walked past Dennis Nielsen’s house. You know, the one where he strangled his lovers in their sleep and buried them in the garden. Anyway, I meandered along the avenue trying to identify the right house. You would be amazed how many candidates there are. Its possible that some actual live serial killing is going on in some of them as I type. They are going to build some new houses on the tiny tiny patch of waste land at the back near the lock up garages so they’ll have to dig it all up again so the new guard may be discovered sooner than they think. This is one of my big fears – to live in a house and find out, months later, that it was once littered with the corpses of unfortunate murder victims, many of whom suffered hideous torture. I fear that more than the serial killer I think. Dennis Nielsen was a civil servant. Which makes sense really.

I have never, in my whole life, seen so my dogs sniffing each other's arses before. In my whole life. I think today must be national Sniff a Dogs Arse Day in the canine calendar. I was pleased to see that our four legged friends are not subject to the same bigotry and prejudices as we are. There were small dogs and big dogs, black dogs and spotty dogs, shaggy dogs and wiry dogs all sniffing each other with gay (and straight) abandon. I did feel sorry for three dogs whose owner would not let them play with the other dogs. He was one of those Queens Park types that had wandered over to our postcode by mistake – perhaps had a heavy night on the old champers – and he had two of those dogs that look like they have dreadlocks and no eyes and one Irish Wolfhound who looked thoroughly depressed, as any good colonialist whipping dog should. They weren’t to fraternise with the poor people’s dogs for fear they became diseased. Or had fun.

I walked across the playing field/abandoned patch of grass and happened upon a woodpecker. Although the pesky bird insisted on flying off every time I got near it, I persevered and positively identified it as a green woodpecker (picus viridi). Why it was in the middle of a stretch of grass and not moshing half way up a nice tree I’ll never know. Mostly because every time I asked it, it flew away in either terror or disgust.

I inadvertently gathered a large amount of gravel in my turn ups and was forced to stop and clear my jeans of little stones and twigs twice. Then I had trouble folding them back up again so they were even and also so my ankle area didn’t look like a fan of Bronski Beat. Or Bros.

There were no aeroplanes in the sky whatsoever. This is more disorientating than it sounds because the skies of north west London are usually teeming with aircraft, and not just police helicopters. This is because, if you don't know, the police have foiled a terrorist plot and now the horse has bolted they are trying to nail the stable door shut with a bag of marshmallows and a lego pirate figure.

I was cold. You think this would make me quicker. But no. I savour being cold, after being too hot for so long it was a blessed relief. Although now I am finally at work and the air conditioning is on as though it were 103 degrees CELSUSIS outside. I am in fear of hypothermia.

Can you imagine? It's a wonder I'm not still out there somewhere marvelling at it all like some village simpleton.

A Surfeit of Squirrels (7)

Me: Could you stop wailing and gnashing like that? I’m trying to concentrate.
Squirrels: Waaaaaaaaaiiiiiillllllllllll.
Me: What’s the matter? Why are you all writhing around on the ground like that?
Squirrel: Where have the trees gone?
Me: The trees?
Squirrel: Those three trees.
Me: The council cut them down.
Squirrels: Waaaaaaaaaiiiiiillllllllllll.
Me: Stop that. Please. It’s horrible.
Squirrel: Why did they do that? Why?
Squirrels: Waaaaaaaaaiiiiiillllllllllll.
Me: I don’t know.
Squirrel: You made them didn’t you? Because you hate us.
Me: No. I liked the trees, I’m sorry they’ve gone. Look on the bright side, eh? You’ve got other trees. Look, that one’s enormous.
Squirrels: Waaaaaaaaaiiiiiillllllllllll.
Me: Why don’t you write to the council and complain instead of harrassing me?
Squirrel: Because these little little paws have not yet evolved the ability to hold a pen, have they? Stupid.
Me: Can you go and lament in someone’s garden? I’m bored of you now.
Squirrel: That council are out to get us.
Bastard: Dad?
Squirrel: Yes.
Bastard: Is it because you killed the Prime Minister?
Squirrel: Don’t be silly.
Me: It’s alright, little Bastard. Daddy didn’t kill the Prime Minister. I’ve seen him on the television lots and lots.
Squirrel: That’s not the Prime Minister.
Me: Yes it is.
Squirrel: No it isn’t.
Me: It looks like him.
Squirrel: Do you really think the real Prime Minister would have postponed a Caribbean holiday to keep on eye on the crisis in the Middle East? No. He would have buggered off and left Quick Draw McGraw in charge. Wouldn’t he?
Me: Oh. Shit.
Squirrel: Exactly.
Me: Who’s the guy on the telly then?
Squirrel: That’s some homeless guy called Hilary we found in the alleyway. We’re paying him in tequila and crack cocaine. He's a good laugh actually. We're taking him to Spearmint Rhino tomorrow night.
Me: Where's the real Prime Minister then?
Squirrel: We stashed his bloody corpse in the boot of your car.

(pause)

Me: Waaaaaaaaaiiiiiillllllllllll.

Vouchers for Honours (or squirrels eat Tony Blair)

(The doorbell of Froosh Towers rings. Froosh opens the front door)

Froosh: Hello? Oh dear.
Man: Hello there, happy voter. My name, is, Tony Blair. You might recognise me from, such television shows as; Ant and Dec's Saturday Night Takeaway and Tony and June, where I proved, myself, to be a man, of the people.
Froosh: No. But I do recognise you from such atrocities as the Iraq War and the crisis in NHS where you proved yourself to be a complete twat.

(pause)

Tony Blair: Well. Never mind, that now. Yeah? I would like to; speak to your, daughter. Please.
Froosh: What for?
Tony Blair: Well, I have the offer of, you know, a lifetime for her.
Froosh: And that is?
Tony Blair: I’m aware that; recently, she has come into a bit of money. Right? Yeah?
Froosh: Are you talking about her child trust fund voucher?
Tony Blair: That’s right. Thanks to Gordon. Well, you know, I was thinking that if, she was to give that to me, I would give her a peerage. What do you think? Yeah?
Froosh: A peerage?
Tony Blair: Yeah. Why not?
Froosh: You want her child trust fund voucher and in return you’ll give her a peerage?
Tony Blair: Yeah. What? It’s a win win.
Froosh: So it’s vouchers for honours now is it?
Tony Blair: Yeah, the whole; cash for honours thing? Didn’t really, work out. Poor, Lord, Levy. Terrible business. But. The party or whatever it is, won’t fund, itself. Will it? Do you know what I mean?

(pause)

Froosh: Why can’t you speak properly? It’s virtually impossible to understand anything that you say.
Tony Blair: Whatever. Yeah? Anyway can I speak to your daughter or what? I’m a; busy man, you know. Busy. I’ve got to get back to number ten, Cherie will have finished, warming the toilet seat for me, by, now.
Froosh: No you can’t speak to her.
Tony Blair: So, you don’t want her; to have a peerage, then?
Froosh: No. I don’t.
Tony Blair: I see. Can I have the voucher anyway?
Froosh: I’m closing the door now.
Tony Blair: No, don’t. Please. I need, the money. Cherie wants, me, to buy her some, polo ponies.
Froosh: Get your head out of the way or I’ll shut it in the door.
Tony Blair: You know. Please.
Froosh: No. Are you crying? Jesus, don't cry.
Tony Blair: What about; Leo’s school, fees? Please.
Froosh: No.
Tony Blair: Give me; the voucher. I’m the Prime Minister, you know, you have to; do what I say.
Froosh: I will not hesitate to set the squirrels on you. They haven’t tasted human flesh in a while.
Tony Blair: I’m not, scared, of a couple of; squirrels.
Froosh: That’s fighting talk, you know.
Tony Blair: Bring it, on, yeah?

(A cloud covers the sun as the birds cease their happy chatter. The sound of thousands of tiny footsteps is audible in the distance. It is a sound to chill the blood; menacing and portentous.)

Tony Blair: Oh, dear.
Froosh: You could try offering them a peerage each. There’s more than one way to reform the House of Lords, after all.

A Surfeit of (Stealth) Squirrels

Squirrels send in crack team on surveillance mission

Ancient and sacred to many, many

Me: Er…Excuse me. What’s going on here?
Woodlice: Greetings.
Me: Never mind that. What are you all doing in my living room?
Woodlouse: Ah. ‘Living Room’? I think you misunderstand.
Me: Have the squirrels put you up to this?
Woodlouse: Squirrel? I have not heard of this creature. Is mythical deity?
Me: They’d like to think so.
Woodlouse: Please. You make tiny misunderstanding.
Me: Misunderstanding?
Woodlouse: Yes. This not ‘Living Room’, this ancient and sacred woodlice site of worship.
Me: And you’re all here to worship?
Woodlice: We are.
Me: I see. And what are they doing?
Woodlouse: The spiders?
Me: Yes.
Woodlouse: This ancient and sacred spider site of worship also.
Me: And the millipedes?
Woodlouse: This ancient and sacred -
Me: Millipede site of worship?
Woodlouse: Ah. You understand us.
Me: All of you have an ancient and sacred site of worship in my living room?
Woodlouse: Yes. ‘Living Room’ much like Jerusalem of insect world.
Me: Excellent.
Woodlouse: Please excuse me. Must join 345,000,000 long queue for bathroom.

(pause)

Me: Excellent.

NW2 Bird Flu: Crisis Averted

Yesterday I popped out in the garden to rescue a large plastic bag which had strayed on the lawn. At high speed, to avoid getting drenched by the lovely April weather we are experiencing in NW2, I retrieved the bag and put it in the dustbin.

On my way to the back door I nipped past a small brown feathery mass on the ground near the house.

It was a bird. A sparrow. Female, of the tree variety. I know my birds.

I stood and stared at until I realised that I was getting soaked. Then I sat dripping on the kitchen counter; all sweaty anxiety pressed up against the window, going cross-eyed in my attempt to see the bird below. After some time, when cramp set in, I embarked on some intense pacing back and forth between the fridge and the oven.

One bird does not bird flu in my garden make. I knew that. You need three dead birds. Not one. I contemplated a thorough search of my garden and all neighbouring gardens in search of other ailing avians. I tried to remember where we had thrown the phone book in order to get the number for the RSPB. I contemplated dialling 999.

I looked up from my fretting. There was a small greasy smudge on the window, beginning to smear under the rain, but there nonetheless. I established that it was on the outside of the window.

It was female tree sparrow shaped.

I rushed back outside and the sparrow had gone. I turned the pieces of evidence over in my razor sharp mind and came up with the following scenario: Stupid bird flies into kitchen window and lays stunned on the ground below. Stupid woman comes home from work and assumes bird flu is rampant in suburban garden. Stupid stunned bird comes round and flies off. Crisis averted.

Thank God, eh?