CRACKING a window gets fresh air in, but this parade of six-legged bastards won’t be far behind. These are the usual hellish suspects:
They have better PR than Hollywood celebrities, from songs to well-loved publishing houses to tiny toddler raincoats. But when you’ve got 12 of them on a windowsill and they open their casings and take flight, they’re just one more nasty little insect.
The answer to the question everyone was asking – what if we made a spider fly? Always so much longer and leggier than any living thing should be, dedicated to getting into your face, and if you try to catch them detach their horrible limbs with gay abandon.
This little shit isn’t finding its way out anytime soon and it absolutely wants you to know it. Will even do you the courtesy of letting you drop off to sleep, settled in the knowledge it must have gone, before gifting you a buzzing flypast not heard since World War Two.
Working the nightshift, moths love a darkened room with a 40-inch plasma screen they can all settle on for hours, ruining Netflix with their brown, dusty bodies. Remarkably resistant to any suggestion that they could f**k off.
Enjoy such a good reputation, what with honey and misattributed Einstein quotes, that you’re honour-bound to escort them from your home alive. And they know it, and they’re determined to be dicks about it, fuzzily bumping into every window in the whole house.
Conversely, everyone agrees that this stripey bastard deserves to die. Apart from the wasp himself, who is armed and ready to flip from stoned and sleepy to angry and frenzied the minute someone goes at it wielding a flip-flop. After this the windows are closed no matter how stuffy it is.