Of scorpions and cockroaches.
It has been said that cockroaches are the only things to survive a nuclear blast. I don’t doubt it, it takes a lot of whacks from my shoe/sandal/book/mug, and inordinate amounts of screaming to off one brown little bugger. To top it all off, it’ll be jumping around like it’s in a flea circus (remember those? I don’t.), making the task of killing it that much harder.
Now. I don’t know if scorpions would survive a nuclear blast (but I don’t doubt it), and it’s a testament to my geekiness that rather than think “Oh dear LORD that’s a scorpion scuttling across my yard” I automatically thought it was a baby blast-ended skrewt.
To be fair, though, it could have been one, and I would still have killed it with a shoe.
Only a minute or two ago I opened these very doors, the ones I showed off earlier with the blurb “Brb, Narnia” (and then giggled at my own cleverness, like it hasn’t been done by countless people with a closet before), a cockroach jumped in my face.
Then I picked up my laptop, only to find the screen covered in flying… Whatevers.
Then my sister watched as a rather large grasshopper jumped into her hair.
And then.. Well, then a
blast-ended scorpion came crawling across our garden.
I have never been so thorough in shaking out my sheets before going to bed in my entire life.