I’m drinking scotch and Drambuie in a lovely crystal glass at 3:46 am. I’ve been up since about 9am yesterday and I don’t think I’m getting back to sleep. I haven’t had a cigarette in 24 hours, so despite feeling virtuous, I’m also jumpy and would worship as a god whoever brought me chocolate, for at least five minutes. I have no junk food in the house. You can almost hear the violins for my tale of woe in this unconfectioned landscape.
So, being jumpy and WILDLY awake, I tried Xbox, reading, iPhone games and settled on watching The Big Fat Quiz of 2011 on YouTube. It was precisely this activity in which I was partaking when a cockroach ran up my leg.
Having now dealt with this intruder, I can laugh a little about my less-than-heroic response. But imagine you are in bed alone at 2am, and it’s hot, when you feel something decidedly not-you running directly towards your balls. Your response, I suspect, will be as unrehearsed as mine - although you probably won’t call the now-smashed-with-a-very-thick-book-remains of the cockroach any of the words i used. It may have been beyond hearing (and the nature of my invocations incomprehensible) but still, nothing burns away the sense of righteous anger at being bug-handled like screaming curses.
So now, an hour and a half later, I’ve changed the sheets, pillowcases and doona cover, lifted the bed frame and sprayed liberally with barrier spray, sprayed every doorway and window ledge with barrier spray, washed all tonight’s dishes again, disinfected the fridge, disposed of the smashed roach, deployed new roach traps (and will be getting more tomorrow), had a shower and am now drinking to try and relax.
Tomorrow I will set off roach bombs. And maybe replace the sleep I’m six hours late for.
Woodsman
Of all my faults, I think it's the inability to be decisive that's the worst. Or maybe not. I don't know.
