Fucking horrid bastard moth bastards

A British-style ‘heat wave’ has started. That is, three days of semi-humidity, requisite British moaning about the heavy moistness of the air and the little drip of sweat rolling explicitly on the insides of undergarments. The buzz in the air and the romance of the city clothed in glorious sunshine.

I opened up the French windows and decided to make the garden another room; a perceptual shift that made me want to hoover the grass and mow the carpet. Housepride creeps imperceptibly outwards. The doors flung open in Mediterranean, outlandish holiday fashion, the ground reverberates with retained warmth spreading a delicious outdoorsiness onto our prosaic Monday evening.

And now. The doors are shut, the night remains prosaic, but the walls. The walls are alive with little fucking hideous moths, even smaller antsy variants on moths, fluttery intruders and feckless, skimpy daddy-long-legses. Little brown terrorists who’ve come inside to build their communities of pointlessness on my walls.

Yes, yes, moths are barely any different to pretty flutterbys, if only on their antennae blobs or some such, and I’m sure they do something good for the environment. But firstly, I hate butterflies too (the first time I went into a butterfly house with my sister and our friend, we had totally bought into the idea of the delicate, colourful butterfly as an exotic adornment to the fleshy, pregnant species of plant in there. We entered the tropical atmosphere of that glasshouse wide-eyed, expectantly hoping for their mystery and beauty to inspire us, when WHOOSH! The biggest fucking butterfly you’ve ever seen, a giant monster face on a killer eagle’s wings, dived-bombed our heads and from that moment we ran ducking through the butterfly house as fast as we could, screaming our heads off. This story has in no way been exaggerated by the passing of time and the comic potential of hyperbole). And secondly, there is no logic in the world that will ever make me not hate moths, because once when I was about 15 one of those little fuckers thought it would take a magical mystery tour into my ear, attempting to gorge itself on my gooey brain and suck out the lifeforce of my nascent intelligence. Did it see the light coming through the space between my ears? I can still feel it’s cracked little wings scrabbling dryly against my ear canal as I pranced about demonically, banging my temples with the club of my hand.

So now my reflex when I see them flouncing pointlessly towards me is to flail around like a small child, not a fully formed adult in possession of a degree of poise and rationality. And now I am just wondering what little moth bastards are awaiting me in my bedroom and whether one of them will crawl into my mouth when I’m asleep and lay moth eggs on my brain.