Flying Ant Day 2014 – they’re back with a vengeance

I look back on 2013 very fondly. Our Maria got married. We went to Abersoch and it was glorious. I didn’t cry on my birthday for once. But, best of all, I only saw about two flying ants all summer.

NOT SO THIS YEAR.

I thought that we’d escaped the worst for a second year running. On Saturday, I saw two. Jenny killed them with her windscreen wiper and I believed we were safe. Oh, how naïve I am.

My first alert came courtesy of Louise, who informed me that “millions of the bastards” had hit Aintree. I whimpered at my desk, but told myself that Aintree is miles away from the dark side so I would be alright. Alas, my optimism was short-lived. Allan spoke of a “flying ant apocalypse in the L5 and surrounding area.” Lauren encountered a thousand of them on Renshaw Street and cheerily stated that she “thinks it’ll be worse tomozza.” (Thanks babe.)

At this point I was seriously considering sleeping under my desk at work to avoid the issue, but then the dread of turning into a wool if I stayed the night in Birkenshed overcame my fear of the dreaded winged beasts. I wish, with all my heart, that I had stayed put.

One hit me on the forehead on the way to the train station. Another nearly fell into my bag (I’ll have to throw said bag away.) I then had to endure standing in a swarm of them on Victoria Street while I waited for the bus, which (again naïvely) I thought would be a safe haven, but was in fact worse than being outside, as there was NO ESCAPE.

I spent the entire journey watching them crawl all over the windows, trying not to make eye contact with them in case they attacked, slapping my arms whenever one flew near, scratching my head incessantly and quietly moaning with fright. (To the credit of all my fellow passengers, no one batted an eyelid; they probably thought I was just the obligatory 15 bus crank.) We drove past beer gardens packed full of sun-seeking revellers. I was agog. Are these lunatics unaware of the plague currently upon us?

Thankfully, I’m now safely ensconced in the flying ant-free Crilly abode. Naturally all doors and windows will remain shut until I say otherwise. I am ignoring the fact that by doing this we may run the risk of slowly roasting to death due to the furnace-esque temperature in the house.

I’m off for a shower because I can still feel them crawling on me. It will have to be a sit-down shower, as I am WEAK FROM TERROR.

Let me know when it rains and they’re all dead.

Bad things and good things about summer

Bad things

The constant threat of flying ant day striking.

Trying to get to sleep when your bedroom is hotter than the sun.

Drying your hair i.e blasting your already roasting self with hot air.

Buses that still have their heating on.

Insect bites.

Fellas wandering the streets with their tops off. Mings.

Girls wandering the streets sporting those denim shorts where you can actually see their knickers. Mings.

Having a full-time job, therefore not being as tanned as people who are off work.

Opening the window in a vain attempt to get some air into aforementioned boiling hot bedroom and a full-on ecosystem of moths, flies and wasps being created within seconds.

Good things

Barbecues.

Picnics.

Beer gardens.

Ok so basically eating and drinking outside at all times.

Kazimier Gardens.

A tanned foot and toenails painted in fuchsia nail varnish combination.

Paddling pools.

Excellent sandals and excellent sunglasses.

Everyone looking more attractive when sporting said excellent sunglasses.

Getting to work without being drenched on the way and therefore not having to fret about the onset of trench foot.

The fact that good weather is just generally better, and makes everyone smile, and makes life a thousand times easier.

ENJOY THE SUN Y’ALL!

An open letter to the weather gods

Today, by the time I got to work, I was so cold I had to put on my work dressing gown (you know, the huge minging but cosy cardie everyone has that lives in work? Or is that just me?), over my dress and the cardie that I already had on. Oh, and some fingerless gloves, as my fingers had gone blue. I’m now at home, and have just put the heating on.

IT WILL BE JUNE IN EIGHT DAYS.

As you can imagine, weather gods, I am feeling very upset about this. You have already bestowed upon us the bleakest winter of all time – torrential rain that nearly gave me trench foot, gale-force winds that broke my face, and my meteorological archnemesis, the Arriva bus service-crippling s**w, the thought of which enrages me so much I can’t even bring myself to type out the word in full. Can you please cut us some slack, ye weather gods upon high? It’s in your best interests, as we all look better with a tan, and we will stop moaning almost instantly, because we will be able to while away many a happy hour in beer gardens around the country. (Unless it gets too hot. Because then we won’t be able to sleep and we’ll get narky.)

You know what to do.

Yours teeth-chatteringly,

Catherine