Home Invasion

We have ladybirds.

I don't mean 'we' as in 'the planet Earth' (though that's obviously true); I mean it in the sense of 'we have rats' or 'we have damp'.

There's always one or two flying around our living room. Except they don't really fly. They crawl about, and refuse to be moved. The crawl up drinks cans, crawl up light-fittings, and fall on our faces.

In the corridors of our block of flats, they're more numerous. There are dozens of them clustered around the corners of the window frames.

I'm not that bothered by them. They're definitely nicer than rats. I think people wouldn't mind infestations so much if the creatures weren't ugly. Ladybirds look nice. Their legs are all hidden away, and they're neat and shiny like Elvin currency.

In the same way, people wouldn't be freaked out if their household vermin were meerkats. Or puffins.

I just feel a bit annoyed that we have to look out for them. We don't have to, I suppose. But I'm tormented with the ever-present possibility of accidental ladybird slaughter. I have to watch out for them in case I decapitate them with a Dorito. Which can happen.

I went on holiday to the Caribbean when I was a small boy. Not on my own - my family came too. Which was useful, as I would have struggled to organise an overseas break on my own. And I didn't have the money.

I have a strong memory of swarming ladybirds: big dark clouds of them, swirling and churning. I think it was probably some kind of frenzy.

That happens in the animal kingdom: the frenzy.

It's less common in humans, though I suppose Christmas shopping is similar.

In the midst of the ladybird swarm, one of them gave birth on my sister's hand. The offspring were small and yellow. I think this is true. It seems implausible, and I haven't discussed it since it happened (unless I wrote about it in this blog before - maybe I should check).

That's pretty much my only ladybird anecdote. Which is sad, for someone my age.

I think we'll be able to deal with the ladybird invasion. They'll probably die off in winter, and I'll have to dig tiny little graves, and carve an inscription into a dried corn-kernel headstone.

I'll have to.