. . . to go whoosh whoosh. No, I’m not talking about the traditional season to be jolly. That’s 183 days away. For those that love Christmas (can I write that ‘C’ word in June?!), they will be excited about the fact that it’s only half a year away. For those who do not like any kind of countdown to it, I’m sure they would happily take a swing at me with the bat I’m about to talk about.
No, not the mouse looking one with wings (I’d have to report you to the RSPCA there). It’s the small bat that goes whoosh when you try to swat the pesky insects from being in your home, otherwise known as a fly swatter. Summer season brings them in, suitcase and all, expecting you to forget to put away your food and tidy your crumbs so they can have a feast. Then they fly out the door, extra zig zaggedly due to excess food weight now being carried, waving their front legs, shouting ‘Au Revoir’ and citing you on trip advisor as their favourite holiday destination. And off they go to find some other poor unsuspecting household to entertain their whims.
And then there are the ones with more legs. We had one the size of Britain (well, maybe Scotland), shoot across the living room floor. He’d made it through the tiniest crack in the skirting board. As long as he stays in there and heads out to get his dinner, we’ll all be fine and dandy as ‘housemates’. I have to say here that the spiders in our house don’t get whoosh whoosh-ed. They get trapped in a jar and released back into the wild. Some do try and get back in. I wish they’d learn to read the red sign that says no one with more than four legs is allowed to enter.
Well, Cecil (as the spider was affectionately named) decided to push his luck. When I went to open the curtains in the morning, there he was, asleep on the carpet behind the TV. As soon as the lights went on, he was off. I thought this was just a once off, using ‘the penthouse’ unauthorised. Maybe it had been a bit colder outside or between the walls than he was expecting so he upgraded himself for the night.
He hadn’t disturbed anything, the remote was still on the table, the cushions were on the sofa, the budgie hadn’t squawked his head off because he’d been visited by him in the night. All good.
The next morning though, there he was again, sleeping on the carpet. Should I be grateful that he didn’t ask for a further upgrade to dinner, bed and breakfast, or should I start charging him extra since he’s got the room with the plush carpet?
Either way, had to admire his brass neck.
Just as well that Cecil likes to take most of his chances at night. It makes me wonder if he’d ever dare to explore where the budgie’s toys are. Wouldn’t end well, I don’t think. Woe betide anyone who messes with our budgie’s toys. I’ll bet he’d even give Cecil a run for his money. We have a fast little feathered friend on the carpet who chases footballs and likes to have conversations with feet (don’t ask). Cecil might not make it to his crack in time, especially if he’s messed.
So, I’ve come to the conclusion that the reason I have so many flying house guests is because I am very out of whoosh whoosh practise. Obviously, I have not played swing ball enough to keep up the necessary hand-eye coordination skills to hit any kind of target smaller than a football.
Thankfully the weather is going to be nice for a few days, so I can get practising – both on swing ball and my whoosh whoosh skills!