Ants

If you don’t like me much, it’s most probably because you’re an ant.

Ants hate me. They seek me out and bite me at every opportunity. They make nests under pavements where I frequently walk (and I do a lot of walking – see Driving). They invade my living spaces, no matter what I do.

The last time I was on an airplane, an ant fell from nowhere onto my shoulder and bit me.

At the bus stop the other day, there was an ant crawling across my iPhone while I was busy chatting with someone on social media.

They have even found and bitten me while I was in the shower. In – the – shower. People, why are they on me in water – don’t they realise they could drown?! (As that one did, very quickly.)

I kid you not, but recently I was writing here at this very desk and across my screen walked: an ant!

If I sit in the park, I’ll soon be covered in them – no one else, just me.

Down on the beach, they even prefer my towel to everyone else’s.

They like my bags, my boots, my books, my furniture; they crawl on me in cars, on bikes, in restaurants, while jogging, on the ferry – they haunt me… everywhere.

My kids were asking me about reincarnation the other day, and while my son said he’d like to be a snow leopard, my daughter said she wanted to be anything other than an ant because they get squished all the time, which prompted the idea that perhaps evil people are made into ants. I liked that discussion. Evil people being ants means that whenever an ant bites me I get to squish them guilt-free.

Squish.

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