she cut a swathe.
People fell at her feet...
gasping in wonderment.
Lady Docker in her finest
Hold tight...
They were gasping alright,
not from wonderment,
nor yet horror, but
from the tightness in their chest
as they breathed in the killer cocktail
of Chanel No 5, overlaid with mothballs.
This is a tale of the
Killing Fields of Kent.
The enemy...
moths and slugs.
Can anyone tell me what slugs
bring to the party of life?
On the pavement proudly sat a pile of poo
beautifully framed by a lacework pattern of
slug/snail trails.
They obviously love the stuff.
So why the heck don't they just content
themselves with getting high on crap,
instead of my pansies?
Moths (only the clothes eating ones)
Why?
How do all the squillons of others
manage to survive without
savaging my 'Sahara'?
With gimlet eye I carefully open the cupboards.
Cedar discs, sticky traps and organicals hang like
baubles on a Christmas tree.
So far so good: my zero-tolerance policing
seems to be working.
That is until a few small moths started appearing
on the stairs.
Dead and dying dressing gowns are promptly
given a much needed freshener, hot wash, high spin.
Hanging on the door unworn and unloved, have
the moths taken up residence I idly wonder?
I'm getting worried...
is the slutty housewife going all
clean and fragrant?
Still they come...
next the airing cupboard gets a
sort-out.
I am getting seriously worried...
heaven-forbid that I
might start to enjoy this cleaning lark?
Late one night as I troll up the
rickety stairs to bed...
there's one...
two...
three.
I stop, turn 90 degrees, having a epiphany
moment as I do.
It's a blooming wonder I didn't fall
tripperty-trot down the steep, steep stairs.
There...
I spy the offending item...
my Highland hand spun, natural dyed scarf
made for my lovely dad over 30 years ago.
His name was also Ted.
Carefully I lift the scarf and...
what'd you know out falls a dozen or so
small moths.
Evidence of their dastardly deeds
Killing all I can see, I smartly march the scarf out
into the garden for fumigation to commence
on the morrow.
Hanging it over a garden chair, I think Ted won't see it
on his trip in from a little light slug-squashing.
Happy I retire to bed...
Sorted... the job's a good'un!
In the morning I find he's
only gone and brought the blooming scarf back in again.
This is Ted we're talking about...
man who notices nothing, new dress, rearranged furniture,
me with a plant pot on my head...
you get my drift?
Clutching my chest I fall back in a dead faint
'What did you bring that in for?'
'I saw it out there and thought you'd forgotten it!'
This is the scarf I'd carefully chosen to hide on the back of a chair,
in front of a huge box ball that never in a million years on a dark night
anyone would have seen.
'Oh gawd, how many of them did I miss last night
and are now back in residence?'
Ted by this time thinks, she has finally flipped
what is she on about?
Naturally moths weren't high on the agenda of our
late night's billing and cooing.
I know I'm stupid but not that stupid!
gasping in wonderment.
Hold tight...
They were gasping alright,
not from wonderment,
nor yet horror, but
from the tightness in their chest
as they breathed in the killer cocktail
of Chanel No 5, overlaid with mothballs.
This is a tale of the
Killing Fields of Kent.
The enemy...
moths and slugs.
Can anyone tell me what slugs
bring to the party of life?
On the pavement proudly sat a pile of poo
beautifully framed by a lacework pattern of
slug/snail trails.
They obviously love the stuff.
So why the heck don't they just content
themselves with getting high on crap,
instead of my pansies?
Moths (only the clothes eating ones)
Why?
How do all the squillons of others
manage to survive without
savaging my 'Sahara'?
With gimlet eye I carefully open the cupboards.
Cedar discs, sticky traps and organicals hang like
baubles on a Christmas tree.
So far so good: my zero-tolerance policing
seems to be working.
That is until a few small moths started appearing
on the stairs.
Dead and dying dressing gowns are promptly
given a much needed freshener, hot wash, high spin.
Hanging on the door unworn and unloved, have
the moths taken up residence I idly wonder?
I'm getting worried...
is the slutty housewife going all
clean and fragrant?
Still they come...
next the airing cupboard gets a
sort-out.
I am getting seriously worried...
heaven-forbid that I
might start to enjoy this cleaning lark?
Late one night as I troll up the
rickety stairs to bed...
there's one...
two...
three.
I stop, turn 90 degrees, having a epiphany
moment as I do.
It's a blooming wonder I didn't fall
tripperty-trot down the steep, steep stairs.
There...
I spy the offending item...
my Highland hand spun, natural dyed scarf
made for my lovely dad over 30 years ago.
His name was also Ted.
Carefully I lift the scarf and...
what'd you know out falls a dozen or so
small moths.
Killing all I can see, I smartly march the scarf out
into the garden for fumigation to commence
on the morrow.
Hanging it over a garden chair, I think Ted won't see it
on his trip in from a little light slug-squashing.
Happy I retire to bed...
Sorted... the job's a good'un!
In the morning I find he's
only gone and brought the blooming scarf back in again.
This is Ted we're talking about...
man who notices nothing, new dress, rearranged furniture,
me with a plant pot on my head...
you get my drift?
Clutching my chest I fall back in a dead faint
'What did you bring that in for?'
'I saw it out there and thought you'd forgotten it!'
This is the scarf I'd carefully chosen to hide on the back of a chair,
in front of a huge box ball that never in a million years on a dark night
anyone would have seen.
'Oh gawd, how many of them did I miss last night
and are now back in residence?'
Ted by this time thinks, she has finally flipped
what is she on about?
Naturally moths weren't high on the agenda of our
late night's billing and cooing.
I know I'm stupid but not that stupid!
All men are helpful aren't they? The mister bought me a coffee and toast in bed this morning, smashing. He was thoughtful enough to bring a coffee refill too, that's when he knocked the coffee cup over on the white duvet cover. Bed hastily stripped duvet applied with large amounts of 'Vanish' and straight into the washing machine.
ReplyDeleteBless 'em
Jean x
Where would we be without them Jean? With a dearth of fellers, we would turn on womankind and that would never do!
DeleteLLX
Slugs, poo, and moths... disgusting, and yet you pulled it off and wrote a wonderfully funny piece. Therapy would be a good idea, you don't want this housework habit to become too deeply ingrained.x
ReplyDeleteI'm never sure Elaine when I do fire off a rant whether it is going to amuse or offend. Trouble is... I've got a skewered view of life, not that you would have picked that up, mind! I feel it building up inside, then off I go on one, grammar, spelling etc. all to pot. Boy, do I feel better after it though. Just wish now I could apply the same to housework and all things domestical.
DeleteLLX