I’m not the sort of person who wears a suit. Much like the readers of this site, I’m the sort who tends towards a torn old denim jacket and a pair of battered jeans, although the boots have to be good.
But when the occasion arises, I do like to turn out well and I’m fussy about my walking-out threads. I am, now. Call me old-fashioned if you like, but when the occasion arises, it’s good to look sharp and that was why, when I reached into the wardrobe to select my best suit a couple of years back, I knew — I just knew — that I had no need of anxiety. I just knew I was going to cut it in this well-tailored expensive outfit, with a nice shirt and a killer tie.
I knew this right up until the moment I laid the suit across the counter of the dry cleaners and our eyes met, this dry cleaner and I, as we both observed the tiny bullet holes in the crotch of my expensive trousers.
Moths, said the dry cleaner with a melancholy shrug.
Moths, I replied. Bastards.
I thought moths were a thing of the past. I thought moths were something our grandparents worried about but now here I am, looking at the consequences of my own complacency, measurable in hard money. Countable in a reserve currency.
As it happens, I have one of those electric tennis racquets. One of those insect-zapping swipers that keep us fit, lunging at gnats, and how appropriate it is on this day when Andy Murray managed to win at Wimbledon, be-flooding himself with tears and destroying our newly-sensitised post-internet clickbaited society where everything is a cataclysm. He wins Wimbledon. You won’t believe what happens next!! LOL.
With my electric tennis racquet I zap every moth I see, but still they somehow manage to chomp on a jacket or a scarf.
Is it because they hate me? Probably not. They’re only insects, but maybe some Bond villain has infested my home with moths in order to force me …
No. That’s just stupid. I know nothing a Bond villain would want to find out and I have no money. Certainly not money on a villain scale.
It’s just moths. Gaah!
This morning I was out and about with my beloved daughter, idly noodling around DIY stores and yes, it’s true I adopt a slightly superior air in these places. Having cultivated a lifelong relationship with the men who work the counters in real hardware shops, I get the proper discount because they somehow think I’m a tradesman. It must be the dishevelled appearance and the faint air of not giving a shit.
B&Q, I think it was.
My daughter turned to me and said, This would suit you.
Ah! I said. A Venus fly-trap. Just what I always wanted. And it’s true. I did always want one, especially for those little fruit-flies that gather in the kitchen at the slightest sign that you might have left a grape on the counter just a day too long.
How do they do that? How do they know? How do thousands of fruit flies gather in your kitchen on the instant? Do they somehow have a phone app that tells them you forgot to put away that half-eaten pear last night but you’ll do it first thing in the morning?
Take that! Whack. Zap. Thump.
I don’t hate moths, unlike the vile bluebottles, but I’ll cheerfully extirpate them in my home. If moths would live in peace with me, I’d live in peace with them, but anything prepared to eat my suit is asking to die, especially since I only have one suit at a time. Not being a suit person you know?
Somehow, I suspect the moths won’t go for the Venus fly trap, but that’s all right.
Feel the wrath of my electric tennis racquet!