Friday, 6 February 2009

I killed a moth that was you. But it wouldn't die.

Let me explain: before we got back together, I'd been doing some nature magic with a friend. Then you wheedled your way back in and started to substitute your sleight of hand. Then, when we split up for good a month, maybe two, later, I was laid waste. Like you'd taken my soul with you.

A couple of nights later, I woke up at the feeling of something brushing my face and a heavy beat in the air. Well-warned by the tabloids that poisonous German moths were invading the UK, I bravely sprang up, turned the light on, cornered the beast -- really, it was, with a wingspan of about four inches -- on top of a chest of drawers and killed it. Slam, a heavy book smashed down on it.

Next day, I was getting ready to take part in a play planned to celebrate kissing the city goodbye. A friend hanging out in my room lifted up the book, and the moth flew out -- and up under my (skin-tight, angel-covered) lycra dress. Feeling very Victorian, I had a fit of the vapours, tore off my dress, but still the moth wouldn't leave. It kept flying into me like an attack. Even after we shut it out the window, it flew back, audibly butting its anthers on the glass.

No wonder it took me a whole summer to get over you.