ROACH HORROR

Not being an hysterical type I have often caught live poisonous snakes to prevent their being killed, and am regularly called upon to pick up hopping frogs or hissing chameleons etc.  I do this with panache and style. I have never been guilty of jumping on the table and screaming at the sight of a mouse.

The one exception to the rule is the dreaded cockroach.  It's the way they scuttle and scurry. For some reason they strike me speechless with terror.

Having had an extensive private library in his youth, my man has a lot of well loved books that  he has  lugged from pillar to post for years. When we  bought our pondokkie the first thing he did was to build three walls of floor to ceiling bookcases. Out came the by now yellowed and worm-eaten books and they were lovingly placed on the shelves, classified according to size rather than subject. And there they stayed undisturbed for six years while we read library books.

This week, all unsuspecting, I innocently took down a book. Horror upon horrors: there was a huge cockroach wriggling under my hand. Keeping my mouth shut I screamed through my nose and stomped on the monster. Yuck!  After covering various cages and aquariums and catching six cats and throwing them outside I gleefully sprayed roach poison all along a row of books, muttering murderous incantations.

Stephen King is tame compared to what happened next. Dozens of roaches started to pour out from between Churchill and Shakespeare. They scuttled up Jane Austin and glared at me from behind Keats and Shelley. As they reached the top they started to fall (leap?) off as more and more of their revolting cousins kept appearing. Soon they were also scuttling all around the floor, and over my feet.

The hackneyed phrase “shivers up my back” is incorrect. Your whole skin crawls and shimmers up and down. I kept squealing with my mouth shut and jumping all over as they ran towards me. Thankfully, they started to flop over on their backs just before they managed to carry me off.

I badly needed to get to the kitchen to fetch the dust pan but was afraid to run the gauntlet to the door. Eventually I swept up many pans of corpses and tried to flush them down the loo. Big mistake! They float! No matter how many times you flush they stay. What's more they revived and started to crawl up the inside of the loo. I flushed frantically, humming shrilly.

Worse still, not having the bucks to call in Robbie, our local intrepid dragon slayer, I have another three walls of books to de-roach. I am so aware of what lurks behind the pages of history, drama and art.  Beatrix Potter would roll in her grave if she knew what un-cute little creatures were between the pages of her charming stories. Nightmare on Elm Street revisited!

Procrastination reigns: the flesh is willing but the spirit is terrified!

Now I jump and the shivers start at the slightest rustling sound. Hysteria lurks just under the surface.  I can't sleep and feel on the verge of a panic attack. Of course Ron keeps tickling me and saying, “Scuttle, scuttle!!”.

I am seriously contemplating taking to drink while I plan Ron's painful demise.

The Bonny Hills of Maidstone

Thirty years ago Ron learnt to play the bagpipes. Mercifully he had sold them before we met so I could quite safely commiserate with him when he longed to play Scotland the Brave. Imagine my man with his build (nickname was Rang because he was hairy and built like an Orang-utan) with his looooong hair, shaggy moustache and monocle (yes!) marching up and down in a kilt?!

Recently he met an old piper friend looking very dapper in his dashing Scottish outfit, and Ron's love for all that is Scottish has been rekindled. Out came the practice chanter he had kept hidden all these years.

He demanded a tot of gin (no whiskey in the house) to “blow through the pipe”. Does he think I was born yesterday?

The sound he produced defies description. The old joke that bagpipes sound like a cat being tortured doesn't half cover it. All six cats froze with looks of anguish on their faces: ears flat, eyes wide and hair on end. Gentleman Jim reversed into the kitchen and took refuge behind the fridge. Mad Bad Leroy Black (the baddest cat in the whole damn shack) attacked Jet who dived under the bed. Toffee walked in circles stressing and fussing, Mammakat gave Ron a long inscrutable look and CC the kitten wanted to play with this interesting new toy.

With watering eyes bulging, cheeks sucked in and sweat rolling in great drops down his red face, my hero struggled to remember his scales. Eventually, somewhere in the hazy mist of the cacophony, the ghost of Amazing Grace could be heard. Beaming with pride he asked me if I recognised it. Nastily I answered, “Yes, 'Happy Birthday' is it?” Wouldn't speak to me for hours.

In the evenings I love to sit in the garden and enjoy 'my' lake. Birds singing, sound of water running, my beloved cats playing at my feet, one purring on my lap. Peace reigns. Heaven.

Not any more! Ron now follows me out with his terrifying pipe to show me how well he has progressed. He happily assures me that the actual bagpipes (with bag) are much louder and more impressive.

Our kindly neighbour rushed over with a huge bag of litchis. I am not sure if it was a plea for mercy or a peace offering?

The six cats and I are seeking asylum. Anywhere bar Scotland!

PS. Come to think of it the old dear would look quite fetching in a kilt!