So you regular readers/anyone who's spoken to me around Autumn/anyone who'll listen, will know about me and moths. I don't like moths. I hate them, in fact. I mean, look at them: obviously evil. Doesn't even need saying, agreed? Good.
And usually around this time of the year, I start closing my windows at 6, keep lights off in my bedroom, and check the bathroom before I go to bed, and that keeps all but the little ones out of my hair. Means I don't need to worry about the big buggers, at least, as long as some idiot doesn't open a window or something, and ruin all my hard work. The only rational response in that situation is to punch them, right in the mouth.
But. But but but. Thanks to the recent hot weather, something has happened. Thousands, nay millions (maybe), of moths from the Mediterranean and Spain have upped and left their lovely warm homes that are far away from me, and moved. To Dorset. Easily within flying reach for a tenacious moth. And I know what you're thinking, "Oh it's just a little moth, who's worried about that?"
Time for some stats, idiot:
Death's Head Hawkmoths, one of the species that are now in the UK, can have a wingspan of 13 cm.
And it has a skull on it's back. Seriously, a skull. You seen Silence of the Lambs? It's that one. Anything a serial killer loves, I hate. Just the way it works.
So now I'm double-checking my windows every night. Although I'm not too upset; I've been getting complacent. The fact is, my neuroses give me something to do. They stop me being bored. Like writing this blog: keeps me busy, and both would interest a psychiatrist.
So those moths are another thing to be scared of. Like terrorists to me, they are. Flappy, cloth-eating terrorists.
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