Miss Pink is a bit thingo about cockroaches and mice. She doesn’t like them. I don’t mind mice so much, but I do hate filthy cockroaches. Most insects that make their way into my house, are free to do their thing, man, until they start bothering me. Then I find some way to return them to nature, Rex Hunt style (sans the smooching, natch).
But cockroaches must die! The thought of them dragging their filth over my crockery and flatware revolts me. Nonetheless, this doesn’t stop me from being a hypocrite and doing the boy-thing to stir up Miss Pink. I visualise in detail and aloud, mice queuing up to do a whiz into the twin-slot toaster; that kind of hilarity.
Strangely, though, her anti-cockroach and mouse stance – which is actually a by-product of how much she hates the thought of vermin adulterating what she eats – has been taken up by me. I actually have my toaster wrapped in plastic Laura-Palmer-style in order to keep it critter-free. And I took on Miss Pink’s use-by date phobia some years ago. Things are thrown out of the fridge days before the expiry date rather than days after, which used to be my M.O.
Last night, I walked into my clean kitchen and discovered three freakin’ cockroaches gathered on the floor. As if they were waiting for a fourth for a round of golf. As if they were a doo-wop group about to do a spot of harmonising.
It was, I’m afraid, a massacre.
I beat them down with what we Aussies like to call a “thong” (not what you think, Americans). Others might refer to this charming item of footwear as a flip-flop. Still others, raised in the Land of the Long White Cloud, might call this thing a jandal.
I took out two of the 'roaches. The third returned to its platoon.