My friends,
Before I go any further with this post, I want to clear up a possible misunderstanding that could have arisen from my last post. That is : an aversion to willies. A revulsion. A repulsion, indeed, if you will(y).
But that is simply not the case. Truth to tell, if the year ahead does indeed involve them for me, I would not be remotely averse to that. Between emigrating, settling in, and enduring a variety of bad dates (red poloneck, anyone?) I have been single and willy-free for a while. And that's ok. I have great friends (without benefits, I hasten to add - unless you count the one friend who manages to regularly score us free theatre tickets - now that is an awesome benefit... Although probably not the one you'd immediately think of...). I have a good social life. And (according to a friend of mine) with 5 years to go until I hit the big 3-0, I'm still an eligible girlfriend for at least another 3 years. Phew (I think).
So - no - my last message was more about my reaction to the willy and its drunken owner, than willies in their own right. And in my bid to accurately record all aspects of my emigration / settling in process over here, I thought you'd want me to clarify. That and my hope that Robert Pattinson is reading this, deciding I'm the girl for him (swoon), that Kristen Steward is neither pale nor interesting, and that, therefore, he needs to get on his Gulfstream ASAP to come to Sydney, propose, and make me his Twilight bride. Of course, this whole fantasy would come crashing down if he thought I was not willy-focused (not to say I'm focused on them, but you know what I mean), so... yes. Situation clarified. Time to move on.
Gentle reader, more than trouser-snakes, what I really want to talk to you about today is cockroaches. Yes, really.
You see, along with my ornithophobia I also suffer from a general fear of insects, things that fly, and things that are excessively ugly (Ryanair boss Michael O'Leary has, therefore, no hope with me. Ach, Michael, I jest. Although if your version of a private jet is a cramped Boeing then R-Pattz may just have the edge...). Where was I? Yes - my fears.
So, what we can conclude is that cockroaches are a vicious and terrifying combination of all of the above. And they can hiss as well, which is not a reason for fear in its own right, but is pretty freaky nonetheless.
Now, I always knew that the various insects found in the southern hemisphere would be one of the more difficult aspects of emigrating (along with finding a new hairdresser, missing my friends and family, and being without real Dairy Milk chocolate. Whether or not this is in order of importance, I couldn't possibly comment...). But still. Quite how gross these critters are is still a shock to me. Even more so when just the other day, I was sitting out on the balcony with friends, enjoying a glass of wine and a view of the ocean, when I suddenly felt a little thump. On. My. Head.
Yes. Really.
Even as I write this I can feel my goose-bumps rising. With remarkable poise (if I do say so myself) I went to brush the little bastard off me, only for it to fly straight back to my forehead. Apparently, I have a very appealing head for cockroaches. How nice (not). Yet again, I batted it off me, only this time as it hit the floor I started jumping up and down on it with more enthusiasm and intent than you'd have thought possible. To my friends, who were not aware of the situation (it all happened so quickly, and my focus was very much on causing death to the 'roach) it looked worryingly like I was having a "funny turn". Did I care? Not a jot! In my war against insects (a war which I have been waging all my life), outside appearance is meaningless to me. The fact that I am almost inseparable from my Raid can is pretty accepted amongst my friends. And it comes in handy. The whole reasons these aerosols were invtented (other than protecting weaklings like myself, who would surely not have otherwise survived the evolution process) is because cockroaches are attracted to the smell of cockroach blood. Thus, stamping on a cockroach is in fact a very bad idea, as then all its little cockroachy friends want to come over too.
Alas - what was a girl to do?
Well, very simply - get a man in. A sprayer. A killer. A hardened cockroach-hating machine. (Apologies, I'm getting over excited, but - trust me. It was worth getting excited over). Spraying every window sill, every outside door, every drain cover, my happy little home (which by this point had probably created a hole in the ozone all on its own....Oops...) was cockroach-protected. Victory, in the great War of the Cockroaches would be mine.
And so - what does this prove? Firstly, that cockroaches are gross - although we knew that already. Anything attracted to the smell of its dead friends' blood is just not right. Secondly - that I really need to change my shampoo. If my hair smells good to them, then I'm worried. Thirdly - that even the most insect-repulsed Londoner can get past her phobia, so long as she's armed with Raid, shoes, and a glass of wine. Or just Raid. And finally - that I did not have a funny turn (whatever the opinion of my friends). Indeed, I've been out in Hyde Park (the Sydney version) when a cockroach flew straight down my friend's top, and into her bra. Very calmly (ok, not really, but with amazing speed) she whipped off her top, pulled down her bra, and got the sucker out. If there was an Olympic event for Roach Removing, she'd win it hands / top down.
When cockroaches are involved, there can only be 1 winner. And that winner needs to be you. So friends, let me give you this one last piece of advice before I leave you for today: keep your friends close. Keep your can of Raid closer.
Love,
Belle x
Before I go any further with this post, I want to clear up a possible misunderstanding that could have arisen from my last post. That is : an aversion to willies. A revulsion. A repulsion, indeed, if you will(y).
But that is simply not the case. Truth to tell, if the year ahead does indeed involve them for me, I would not be remotely averse to that. Between emigrating, settling in, and enduring a variety of bad dates (red poloneck, anyone?) I have been single and willy-free for a while. And that's ok. I have great friends (without benefits, I hasten to add - unless you count the one friend who manages to regularly score us free theatre tickets - now that is an awesome benefit... Although probably not the one you'd immediately think of...). I have a good social life. And (according to a friend of mine) with 5 years to go until I hit the big 3-0, I'm still an eligible girlfriend for at least another 3 years. Phew (I think).
So - no - my last message was more about my reaction to the willy and its drunken owner, than willies in their own right. And in my bid to accurately record all aspects of my emigration / settling in process over here, I thought you'd want me to clarify. That and my hope that Robert Pattinson is reading this, deciding I'm the girl for him (swoon), that Kristen Steward is neither pale nor interesting, and that, therefore, he needs to get on his Gulfstream ASAP to come to Sydney, propose, and make me his Twilight bride. Of course, this whole fantasy would come crashing down if he thought I was not willy-focused (not to say I'm focused on them, but you know what I mean), so... yes. Situation clarified. Time to move on.
Gentle reader, more than trouser-snakes, what I really want to talk to you about today is cockroaches. Yes, really.
You see, along with my ornithophobia I also suffer from a general fear of insects, things that fly, and things that are excessively ugly (Ryanair boss Michael O'Leary has, therefore, no hope with me. Ach, Michael, I jest. Although if your version of a private jet is a cramped Boeing then R-Pattz may just have the edge...). Where was I? Yes - my fears.
So, what we can conclude is that cockroaches are a vicious and terrifying combination of all of the above. And they can hiss as well, which is not a reason for fear in its own right, but is pretty freaky nonetheless.
Now, I always knew that the various insects found in the southern hemisphere would be one of the more difficult aspects of emigrating (along with finding a new hairdresser, missing my friends and family, and being without real Dairy Milk chocolate. Whether or not this is in order of importance, I couldn't possibly comment...). But still. Quite how gross these critters are is still a shock to me. Even more so when just the other day, I was sitting out on the balcony with friends, enjoying a glass of wine and a view of the ocean, when I suddenly felt a little thump. On. My. Head.
Yes. Really.
Even as I write this I can feel my goose-bumps rising. With remarkable poise (if I do say so myself) I went to brush the little bastard off me, only for it to fly straight back to my forehead. Apparently, I have a very appealing head for cockroaches. How nice (not). Yet again, I batted it off me, only this time as it hit the floor I started jumping up and down on it with more enthusiasm and intent than you'd have thought possible. To my friends, who were not aware of the situation (it all happened so quickly, and my focus was very much on causing death to the 'roach) it looked worryingly like I was having a "funny turn". Did I care? Not a jot! In my war against insects (a war which I have been waging all my life), outside appearance is meaningless to me. The fact that I am almost inseparable from my Raid can is pretty accepted amongst my friends. And it comes in handy. The whole reasons these aerosols were invtented (other than protecting weaklings like myself, who would surely not have otherwise survived the evolution process) is because cockroaches are attracted to the smell of cockroach blood. Thus, stamping on a cockroach is in fact a very bad idea, as then all its little cockroachy friends want to come over too.
Alas - what was a girl to do?
Well, very simply - get a man in. A sprayer. A killer. A hardened cockroach-hating machine. (Apologies, I'm getting over excited, but - trust me. It was worth getting excited over). Spraying every window sill, every outside door, every drain cover, my happy little home (which by this point had probably created a hole in the ozone all on its own....Oops...) was cockroach-protected. Victory, in the great War of the Cockroaches would be mine.
And so - what does this prove? Firstly, that cockroaches are gross - although we knew that already. Anything attracted to the smell of its dead friends' blood is just not right. Secondly - that I really need to change my shampoo. If my hair smells good to them, then I'm worried. Thirdly - that even the most insect-repulsed Londoner can get past her phobia, so long as she's armed with Raid, shoes, and a glass of wine. Or just Raid. And finally - that I did not have a funny turn (whatever the opinion of my friends). Indeed, I've been out in Hyde Park (the Sydney version) when a cockroach flew straight down my friend's top, and into her bra. Very calmly (ok, not really, but with amazing speed) she whipped off her top, pulled down her bra, and got the sucker out. If there was an Olympic event for Roach Removing, she'd win it hands / top down.
When cockroaches are involved, there can only be 1 winner. And that winner needs to be you. So friends, let me give you this one last piece of advice before I leave you for today: keep your friends close. Keep your can of Raid closer.
Love,
Belle x
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