I know, I know... I am making a mountain out of...

a mothball.

Lady Docker aka LL, in furs:

the full length mink, the flying fox draped around her

front row forward shoulders, pulls herself up to her full height

5' 4" in old money.

Let's face it, old money's the name of the game.

All of that paragraph is a totally stonking great fib.

Well to be honest, I have on many occasions been called Lady Docker

and I am 5' 4'.

The furs bit; just the thought gives me a fur-ball moment right in the pit of

my tum.  How anybody could, just defies me.

The reason I came out with that twaddle,

was two-fold, firstly I'm a tart and want to draw folk in,

the second and the reason why I'm having an ugly strop is...

Moths!

We seem to be experiencing our very own in-house blizzard

of the flying kind.

From 0 - 60 I'll fly off the sofa as a moth flutters gently by.

Snapping my capable hands together for all the world

looking like a Spanish dancer exploding into a frenzied flamenco

I strut my stuff.

The little buggers are everywhere,

I even opened the fridge in the utility room to find one

fluttering over the cold cuts.

Now I know they like wool, although I thought they would draw the line at lamb!

On opening the wardrobe, I just wasn't quick enough to smack the

one that sneakily limbo-danced its way between the light fitting.

I prodded it with a coat hanger until suddenly I thought, is a moth worth

a lightening Dr Who trip to local sub-station... NO!

I've spent a fortune on cedar balls,

moth-exciting traps filled with the moths equivalent of speed,

and the herb killer.  I've even against better judgement 

brought in the heavies by way of...

chemicals!

The war came to an ugly head last night when 

going to bed, there, on my side, were two of them  bonking!

With great glee I did the dastardly deed, 

secure in the knowledge they had at least, died happy.

Now in the past I've written about my love for

worn, torn and tatty clothes.

I think in modern day parlance it's called

deconstructed.  And yes, I ought to own up,

some folk might say I'm a deconstructed sort of a lass,

or put another way...

a cucumber slice short of a Pimms.

However, I like my worn look to be courtesy of me, not a 

frigging band of moths with aspirations of

the Vivienne Westwood kind.