We’ve got a moth infestation. To the extent that I now wander round obsessively fixated on looking for tiny thin dark/black marks on walls, especially near door frames or down the sides of furniture. And then crush em. We’re going to have to repaint pretty much everywhere. Or extend moth cull to a level in which it resembles some new decorating technique; “papery flakery. In dull grey to blackish.”
Rosie was my fellow moth destroyer. We had some hilarious days a few weeks ago. Systematically searching them out with a spongy baseball bat. But Rosie’s left home now. Gone to moth free pastures [I hope]. I wonder if LB might have taken up the cause. I don’t know. He was a dedicated and committed litter hound and did a cracking number (with constant encouragement/involvement) on weeds in the front garden. I’m not sure if fleeting, flitsy/flaky insects would have rocked his boat.
Rich and I went to London today. Leaving the moths free to do what they do in a day. [Bastards]. We watched a good chunk of London Pride. Loving the brilliance, joy and creativity. A bit bored/frustrated by the (often lengthy) patches of corporate overkill. London buses featured consistently which was ace, though we were staggered by the ‘wheel stewards’. Every bus/vehicle in the parade/procession had dedicated wheel stewards. For each wheel. On a route fenced off from the public and organised to the hilt. Wheel stewards? LB was in a specialist NHS unit with a ratio of four staff to five patients (plus the wider learning disability specialist team) 24 hours a day. At a cost of £3,500 per week. And he died?
With no accountability, still.
How the fuck does that work?