Draft Invitation

It seems only days ago when I suggested to my mum that the thermal poverty of aughty six's vernal sector in this part of the world was a good enough reason to postpone her visit for a short while. She feels the cold. I have long suspected that the God of Moses is a comedian because no sooner was the decision made before I was reduced to throwing off clothing and bedding and seeking ways to increase airflow through the building without inconveniencing the cat or facilitating ingress of insects of the aerial kind. It is still early in the summer; I have seen off the groggy and confused first wasps ... large, lazy, slow-buzzy beasties, the sort that has a glinting, case-hardened sting spike; the first carrion flies freshly imagoed from whatever smelly mound of slimy rottenness that such nasties hatch from have also been warded off. I am not especially phobic concerning flying insects. I just don't want the little buggers indoors ... if only because they display every intention of wishing to leave but none of the wit to take advantage of such opportunities as might arise.

So I have something of a sympathetic if oxymoronically anti-empathic attitude towards my fellow lifeforms who fly without fur or feather. I wish I was as equitable in regard to Charlotte and Boris. Spiders are not natural. Eight legs are at least four too many. It has been scientifically proved (by me) beyond all doubt, that the maximum number of legs that a successful lifeform needs is four. One at each nominal corner. The magic number of four provides for all eventualities but mostly it fills the needs of three legs to defeat gravity while the fourth one is finding a new place to stand on. How in hell does having four more legs assist the animal?

I have had some days to consider the problem. Charlotte is trapped beneath a glass in my bathroom. Every time I take a pee she's there, watching me. She takes a turn or three around the glass; three feet on the tiles of the floor, three pawing with crazy optimisim at the unreasonably slippery glass (but nevertheless conveying some sort of bizarre sense of locomotion if only because my mind demands to make sense of what it sees), always keeping two legs in reserve, waving them around in space ahead its progress ... ah, shit. I guess it makes sense. I shall not be able to keep Charlotte a prisoner for much longer. Sooner or later I must take her outside and send her on her way. Meanwhile. Sorry, Boris. It was you or me and the kitchen sink wasn't big enough for both of us. Whatever were you thinking when you abseiled into it?

Mirelly joined me in bed the other night. She hasn't done that for a few weeks. I came awake with a facefull of tickly whiskers investigating my nose. I mumbled a sleepy greeting to her and she chirpled and purred her agreement that it was a fine night and set about the protracted catty business of deciding upon an orientation and position for sleeping. Her fur smelled of tree bark and pine tar and grass; I fell asleep again thinking that heaven could not offer a better atmosphere.

It occurred to me later to wonder if Mirelly is the one bringing home the spiders. I shall have to have a serious word with her. Who's the one who brings home the pigs' liver and chops it into bite-sized pieces here anyway? (And let's not even go down the mussels road. I treat myself and just before I serve she materialises like a ghost and proceeds to compete with me to see who can eat the quickest. I have to buy two adult portions just to get my fair share.

Meanwhile I am hot and sticky and a draft would be rather nice ....