I’m currently embroiled in the series of Dexter (beware – LOADS of spoiler alerts via that link…) where the justice-seeking serial killer (yeah, never quite sounds right, but yet, it so is) is in the process of hunting down religious maniacs who have just staged a plague of locusts as one of their killing tableaux.
Now, I promise no spoiler alerts in this blog, unlike last time: I’ve not seen enough of this series even to guess at the denouement, but it is ironic that I’ve just watched a locust swarm unfold on telly when we appear to have our own swarm going on; and it’s a strange one alright.
Otherwise known as Daddy Long-legs (in our house, at least). For the last 48 hours it has seemed that this village is over-run with them. Everywhere I went, there they were, lurking. Last night there were gangs of them, inside and outside the house. Just hanging out in the conservatory and getting involved with the windowsill in the bathroom. I had a mild concern that I might find myself brushing my teeth with one, or replicating the horrendous spider manslaughter of 2010 (for the squeamish, I shall refrain from detailing, but suffice to say it taught me a lot about spiders’ desire for survival – against all the odds. More than I had ever hoped to know). This morning, L2 found two undergoing their death throes (such as they are, for a crane fly) in his bedroom, which I dealt with thanks to a deft turn with tissue paper.
But today, I’m not encountering any. None manically skittering around the screen as I write; none rising and falling round the lights I switch on as darkness falls. It seems that those Daddies have had their day. I wonder what brought them here, and where they’ve now gone. If anyone living in the next villages along is currently experiencing what we did, let me know.