EVERYTHING’S great, apart from the insects that don’t understand the indoor-outdoor boundary and violate it. Like these pricks.
Somehow was able to discern the difference between glass and open air well enough to enter the house, but now has no f**king idea so spends all day ramming into one particular corner of one particular window in the hope it will vanish. Then the same again tomorrow.
Quiet all day but when night falls you pop a light on and there the f**ker is, slamming noisily into it every two seconds. Apparently trying to navigate by the moon which is such a pathetic failure it makes you hate them even more.
Not a sign of them until there’s a minor spill of orange juice on a worktop that’s not wiped up, and immediately they’re f**king everywhere, marching around like your kitchen’s an open-cast mine and they’re tireless toilers. Their source is undetermined and they survive being crushed.
Indiscernible until the resident is still, perhaps reading or watching telly, when it decides now is its time to shine by buzzing repeatedly around the face, as if trying to send a desperate message. Is told to f**k off, with lingering worries it may bite.
Freaky twats who dance around your bathroom creating oversized shadows and shedding legs with gay abandon. The ratio of legs to body is deeply unpleasant anyway. Squash with your partner’s towel.
The big one. A signal for everyone in the house to panic like a class of over-stimulated schoolchildren, yelling and ducking and opening windows as if wasps can kill you. Remain gripped by terror until it is ushered out or squished. Talk about the incident at work next week as if you nearly died.