Buglife
Now seems to be a time of bugs*.
I don’t know why, but over the last couple of weeks, my small flat has become the Place Where Bugs Come to Die.
I stepped on a largish, yellow-mottled specimen gone belly-up on the bathroom floor when I was getting out of the shower yesterday. On waking this morning I found that an attractive green, pea-sized beetle had peacefully departed to the big bug palace in the sky and left its mortal remains on my pillow, legs immodestly akimbo.
Whenever I sweep the floor (more often than you might think) I notice thin wisps of wings in drifts under the coffee table, or behind the phone. To start with, I thought they were leaves, but then I realised that there was no tree or plant in the vicinity that might carelessly shed leaves of that shape. When I picked one up, before it crumbled between my fingers, I saw the delicate cross-hatching of veins.
I don’t know where these elusive insects hide, because I never see them when they are alive. I don’t know where they leave their bodies either – they are nowhere to be found, and I’ve looked. They leave only their wings in the dust as evidence that they were here at all.
There are, of course, plenty of live specimens. A troupe of tiny ants spends all day patiently fetching and carrying specks of unidentifiable treasure in a long military column that stretches from my sliding doors, skirts my bike, and ends up in the corner by the security bars that protect my small patio from burglars. I woke up this morning to find that they have invaded my kettle.
A tiny, enchanting insect that looks like a baby praying mantis lives in the locking mechanism of my patio doors. A shiny millipede has ventured indoors, but spends most of its time immobile and curled tightly behind the leg of the coffee table.
The other night, a clumsy moth, confused by the sudden extinguishing of the light as I went to sleep, collided repeatedly with my left armpit until I switched the light back on and dispatched it to the bathroom. Clearly, in the absence of anything else, my pale skin renders me identifiable as a source of celestial light.
There are the strange wasp-arsed flies with the extraordinarily long waists, and the wild buzzing, cumbersome fat beetles that seem to career from pillar to post. You can almost see them gasping with relief that they’ve made it without crashing into something, or falling out of the sky.
Lightning-fast carpet spiders cling flatly to the walls, scuttling behind pictures and cupboards at any sign of life. They entwine the striped day-biting mosquitoes in light, invisible webs that leave their slowly twisting corpses hanging from the ceiling tiles.
As I hang out my laundry in the mid-morning sun, a pair of swallowtail butterflies flaps around my head, casting monstrous shadows. I stood outside the other day and watched flashing blue-winged swallows dive and catch foolish flies in the early evening calm.
I quite like sharing my home with these other creatures. They are interesting and unobtrusive (except for the ants in my coffee), and there aren’t very many of them.
I could really do without the mosquitoes though.
*City bugs, obviously. Not country bugs of the ilk that Claypot has to deal with – I’ve never yet had to brave a wall of termites to get to the loo. We live a tame life here in the bustling metropolis.