Wasp invasion

Katy has daddy long legseseses (help! Can’t stop! Oh, I just did). Charlie has spiders. I have wasps.

And I think we’ve established on a couple of other occasions that Bagelmouse does not like wasps. And they’re finding a way into my living room, one by one, to hang out by the window and die. Sometimes on their own, sometimes helped along by me discovering them as I pull up the blinds, yelp, then run off to get the Raid and the Sports section of the Saturday Guardian.

Seriously. Five days in a row this has happened. I suspect they might be getting in through a vent that’s otherwise hidden by the radiator (incidentally; why are so many houses built with the radiators directly under the windows? Isn’t that just incredibly stupid?), but nothing’s ever crawled in that way before – maybe the wasps have set up a treasure hunt with the final clue leading to my flat, the reward being a nice warm place to die quietly/have their brains splattered all over the windowsill? I do not know. And it’s not like I don’t have the spiders, cos I do – this is always quite a spidery flat and now there’s loads of them hanging out in the bathroom but I don’t mind that, I really don’t (the only spiders I mind are the really massive ones that scuttle at top speed across the living room floor and refuse to die even though you drop the Sports section of the Saturday Guardian and last month’s Vanity Fair on them).

In a way, the wasps are the cheapest systematic desensitisation therapy around. With the latest one I was ready for the little buzzing fucker. You know the end of Grosse Point Blank, where John Cusack’s offing the hitmen in Minnie Driver’s dad’s house one by one, and he shoots one several times in the kitchen and finishes him off by thwacking him over the head with a saucepan lid? That’s the kind of flourish I am learning to adopt when dispatching the venomous interlopers.

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