Despite frosty temperatures, a few pesky winged insects have taken up residence at Moreen Simpson’s place.
The last thing I expected to faze me in the depths of winter.
A pucklie weeks ago, the snow deep and crisp and even. Me happy cooking a vat of affa fine chilli. Then, ootchamacootcha, a muckle great fly buzzin’ aboot the top o’ my simmerin’ pan. Gads! Size of a marble.
I scraiked and swiped. Far in the name had that come fae? All was deeply frosted and hard as iron ootside. Far could it sleep? Fit could it eat? Nae wonder it funcied a fang-ful o’ my chilli.
Ancient readers will recall I’ve a bit of a record for invasions of the creepy-crawly kind. A plague of ants in the kitchen of my last hoosie near drove me skite. Periodically marchin’ a’ ower the work surfaces that I took to scrubbing with industrial strength disinfectant.
Only after my hubby fumigated every crease and crack with ant-zapping pooder and completely regrouted did the thingies finally give up the ghost.
While at that hoose, I was a martyr to wasp and bee nests, the worst infestation when the stingers – which I could hear ootside the window on the middle of the stairs for weeks but, dimwit, did zilch aboot – munched their way clean through the plaster. I came home to find my stairs black with still-incoming buzzers, the carpet thick with dead eens. Happy days.
So, you’d think I could deal with one fly, no problemmo. Think again.
An especially sly fly
I managed to batter it oot the kitchen into the living room, then reached for my trusty, kill-all Raid can. Hit the b… lighter could I not.
Each time it went quiet and I sat down to savour my presumed victory, the damnt buzzin’ revved up again, the bounder batterin’ itsellie inside lamps or against the telly screen.
I was creepin’ and sprintin’ and sprayin’ roon the room like some syncopated David Attenborough. Still loupin’ and fzzzzin’ until peace came at midnight, though corpse was there none. Presumed deid.
Last week, same flamin’ palaver – this time, the Black Beastie made a grand appearance scuddin’ roon the dishes I’d just put out for a family meal. By stickin’ to the table, the cunning craiter ensured I couldna zap it, lest I poison my entire tribe.
Too close for comfort
By far the worst was Monday night, when I cuddled up in bed, light off, mobile phone on, flitterin’ through Facebook. Then… Hhhhammer hhhhoror! On to my screen, inches from my schnozzle, appears this big, black blob with a huge, gapin’ eye, bent leggies.
I skirled, hurlin’ the phone across the room. Fit the…? Slowly, it registered; another visit from an insect guest. Now it was buzzin’ aboot the room. Losh, nae anither creep-and-spray safari.
What I don’t know is if it was the first one, lain low after twice defying me. Was it the second, of which we lost track?
I on the big light, spotted the BB on the wall and crushed it in one fast and wonderfully dexterous move. Deffo deid.
What I don’t know is if it was the first one, lain low after twice defying me. Was it the second, of which we lost track? Or, was it one of three, in which case… mummy, daddy, far are they, and foo mony brothers and sisters?
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press & Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
