Kerry Baggott on her friendly neighbourhood critters...
For a girl (OK, I’m pushing my luck with the girl thang, but woman just doesn’t sound quite so good) I’m particularly un-girly when it comes to insects.
I’m unphased by wasps and bees, don’t squeal when I see spiders and love gheckos.
But my complete nemesis are flies and cockroaches. My abhorrence of flies surely goes without saying. Any creature that likes to buzz around poo then land on my food… ‘nough said.
As for cockroaches, those dirty, filthy, germ-filled pests are neither pretty nor welcome in my house (which I hasten to add is very clean). And have you ever tried to catch a roach? Boy can they move fast on those six legs of theirs. Stamping on them doesn’t always do the trick – they are the knights of the insect world always ready for battle in their suits of armour.
Well, last night we’re just off to bed when husband comes into the bedroom and says: “There’s a massive cockroach in the spare bedroom”. Then proceeds to do nothing. Nothing! Nothing? Where cockroaches are concerned, doing nothing is not an option. This calls for cold-blooded murder – of the cockroach, not the husband - although he would later be reprimanded for this nothingness approach.
Bearing in mind the temperature is still in the late twenties at the time of going to bed, we ain’t wearing an awful lot – get the idea? I run to my wardrobe and grab the heaviest pair of shoes I can find – my clogs. Armed in our birthday suits with a clog each we march into the spare room prepared to take on this roach.
We move the chest of drawers where my husband last saw it making a beeline. And out pelts this mother of all cockroaches. Now I’ve seen some big roaches out here in my time, but this wins the World’s Strongest Man/Cockroach hands down. This gladiator of a roach must be at least four inches long and have legs that are close to an inch. Even without heels, this is the Naomi Campbell of the cockroach catwalk.
Well, I scream and do no more than pounce on the bed. My husband does an Irish jig as the filthy roach hurdles over his heels to the far end of the room. Luckily my husband goes into caveman mode and recognises that this is a moment to impress his cave wife with his hunting skills.
Seeing the six-legged monster now hurtling towards the opposite corner of the room, husband decides to cut him off at the pass. Like Bruce Lee he summersaults across the bed and splats him point blank with his clog. One shot, one kill.
While this was a very heroic performance, to my husband’s disappointment, I still found the roach more impressive. Not only its size, but how on earth did that thing get upstairs? Unlike in old Dubai – Karama and Satwa for example which do not account for a large proportion of disinfectant sales out here - we only see the odd cockroach in residential suburban Springs. You rarely see them hanging about in gangs, more like the odd one or two loitering around the gutters and bins and occasionally one or two get into the house via the drains. But how did he get upstairs – especially being that obese? Did he walk up the 20 steps?
Actually, I don’t want to know how he got there. Otherwise I may end up wearing my clogs far more than I’d like!