Dirty Laundry (Photo credit: johnhenryf)
It may surprise you to know that I hate airing my dirty laundry in public.
Sure, I write a blog, but I try to be careful about how much I really give away and I generally make only close family members my sacrificial lambs.
There are some skeletons in my cupboard, however, that are too embarrassing even for me to discuss with my readers. When the kids were at primary school and we suffered nit invasion after nit invasion, was definitely one of those.
The epidemic of moths in my pantry over the past month, is another.
I know that moths aren’t a sign of poor food hygiene but an army of maggots crawling over the ceiling is unpleasant, frankly, especially when they kamikaze onto the bench top in front of guests.
I’ve tried everything to get rid of them. I’ve followed Dr Google’s advice about baits and balls, I’ve emptied everything I can into expensive glass jars, but they’re persistent little buggers who refuse to surrender.
You know when you read those inspirational quotes on Pinterest about how shit is only doled out to people who can handle it?
Well, that’s complete and utter bollocks because I’ve had enough! I’ve had more than my fair share of awkward situations to deal with recently, and even my meds are struggling to cope. AND it’s Kurt’s parents evening tomorrow night.
But today may have been the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Picture the scene. I’m sitting in a breakfast business meeting with people I don’t know and I’m trying to feign an air of authority and a level of professionalism.
Which is difficult, at the best of times.
I like to think I can multi-task, and so I furtively check my phone in my handbag every now and again as I talk, but even I am more than a little surprised and COMPLETELY FUCKING GROSSED OUT at the sight of a maggot sitting on top of it. Waiting.
Actually, it’s not just waiting, it’s fucking taunting me in a, ‘what you gonna do now, bitch?’ kind of a way.
This is my reaction:
‘What you gonna do now, bitch?’
But, I’m a professional and so I manage to hold my shit together and don’t tear around the café screaming (like I want to) – but my knee-jerk reaction is to throw the phone in the air.
Luckily, it lands back in my handbag, but the maggot is now airborne and after a triple pike and somersault, it decides that a good landing spot will be on the table directly in front of me. Its landing is perfect, probably a 9.8, and then it looks at me in this daring way and proceeds to inch its way slowly towards my colleagues.
‘Horror’ doesn’t cover it.
I obviously can’t pick it up with my fingers because ‘EWWWWWWWHHHH’, but neither can I let it introduce itself to my colleagues, with a ‘hi, I live at Louisa’s house.’
I grab a napkin and pretend to brush at the crumbs on the table and push it onto the floor and then spend the next half an hour worrying that a) it is crawling up my leg b) it is calling it’s cavalry of mates as well as its cockroach relations for a counter attack once I get back home or c) it is crawling up a colleague’s leg.
As I stand up to shake hands, the heel of my shoe, (which I have been meaning to re-heel for some time because it is down to the plastic), slips on the maggot lying in wait at my feet and I sense its final death throes.
That maggot not only won the war but it became a fucking martyr in the process.