My place in space...
Picture the scene, no, here let me help, courtesy of Ellen the Happy Snapper:



This is my spot in the lounge room, my corner of the couch, pooled in the light of the standard lamp so that I may knit in the evenings without disturbing (overly) our family viewing. The little table is cluttered with knitting books, craft magazines and vids of things of interest only to me (4 eps of The Canterbury Tales at the moment) that I don't want 'accidentally' erased. There is just enough room left on this table for the placing of a coffee cup or wine glass, depending on the hour of the day. The basket on the floor holds my works in progress.

Ahem, so here's a picture of the scene.

Now join us: it's Saturday night, we are watching The terminal and my peripheral vision picks up movement. I eye the small black shape perambulating towards my ankles, and to the amusement of all, leap up, whip off my whiffy, aged, mocassin and proceed to belt it dementedly at the carpet until the tiny, but agressive, bull ant, that was marching at me with intent, is a pulverized scaterring of its component parts. ('Cos those bastards bite.)

Twenty-five minutes later, more action in the shadows of the lounge. This time it's a small spider suiciding by seeking the light. A whitetail. You know, the ones that can cause necrosis of the skin with the poison of their bite? Up I jump, mouldering mocassin in hand and much whacking and thumping later there's another exoskelton scattered around to vac up when the mood to aquire housewifely points makes a rare appearance.

Flash forward, the movie is reaching its heartrending climax - and a millipede goes from one side of my field of vision to the other. Another poisonous little visitor.

This time I lift my feet to the ottoman, shriek like a banshee, and get my husband moving.

I draw the line when we get past 8 legs.

Yair, Orstrayliyah. Wonderful country.







Currently reading: Blood trail by Tanya Huff