Snob Moths

My trousers, dear diary, have fallen.

To moths I mean.

And not just any trousers. These were the long-loved, Italian wool Cad & The Dandy trousers. They were something of a souvenir of the days when I could afford such things. I’d had them for over ten years and I’d been planning to pass them down to my children or, failing that, to someone else’s. Or maybe to the Robert Wringham Memorial Library and Museum.

But now, all is lost. They’re in the outside bin now, riddled with minibeasts, and waiting for Stinky (our local tramp and victim of nominative determinism) to dig out.

Clearly, our moths are snob moths, for they have not touched any of our other clothes. Only the finest dining will satisfy this winged Hun.

Well, I hope you are satisfied, moths, because this means War. Capital “W” and everything.

I claimed upwards of thirty of their number today, just stopping short at mounting their heads on teeny-tiny pikes.

I vacuumed the floorboards–thoroughly–to rattle their cage a bit. Then I squashed any that happened to flutter up into the room. Then I set the pheromone trap, which has so far claimed five. Then, after thoroughly checking for other damage, I zip-locked anything that might constitute a food supply. Then I raided the DMZ (by which I mean the hall closet, which I thought the moths mutually understood to be neutral territory). Raiding that closet, where so many of them hang like bats during daylight hours, was like that bit in John Carpenter’s Vampires where they tear the walls off the undead’s dosshouse to bring them screaming into the sunlight.

As night falls, I find myself bare-chested and bellowing into the stars, face smeared red with the blood of my enemies. Or, as the case may be, slightly dusty with their wing powder.

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