Slayer

I knew there was a good reason not to sit around the house in your knickers but it took until this evening to work it out.

He was in the kitchen before I knew it. I saw him through the corner of my eye. They scuttle with real urgency, as though they know they've been exposed. I detest them.

The thing is, my first instinct was to run. I glanced at the front door but then remembered that (a) Ella was asleep in bed and (b) I wasn't wearing any kecks (another lovely British word). It would take too long to put some on. I would lose sight of him and he would hide, which would mean I wouldn't be able to go into the kitchen for the rest of the evening. I was hungry. It was war.

"Okay" I said aloud. "Okay sunshine, right, okay. You just stay where you are".

The can of mortein spray was in the kitchen, which posed a problem. I climbed to stand on the sofa so I could assess my weapons, which amounted to a coffee cup, the camera and one of Ella's books. With hindsight, the Ikea catalogue would have been a better choice.

I threw the book. He ran under the dishwasher, I got the spray and pointed it. He must be dead, I went back to the computer. Two minutes later he re-emerged, only this time he was flying.

FLYING.

I sprayed him directly, adopting the roach approach. The more I sprayed, the closer he flew. He was a kamikaze cockroach. A brand new species I am yet to claim, brand new fauna. Eventually he fell onto the floor alongside the Esky, writhing about as though he might get back up. I sprayed until half the can of Mortein was gone. He stopped wriggling. I started coughing. He's dead. I won.

I phoned Darren at work to debrief. "I killed a flying cockroach but only because I wasn't wearing my kecks".

The roach itch will be back, it's just a matter of time.