I tell you, it’s a sad day when you can’t even feel safe in your own bed. There I was, looking for some poetry to send me to sleep (a most praiseworthy intention, I’m sure) but what do I get when I reach forward, not getting out of bed, to pull a book from my shelf? A big fat cockroach quivering with readiness on top of aforesaid book, no less. After uttering the customary feminine shriek of horror I shook the book as hard as I could and had the satisfaction of seeing the creature fall to the floor on the other side of the bed. I ran for the killer spray but by the time I got back it had disappeared. I optimistically sprayed the environs nonetheless and got back in bed with the book. (A slight tremor in my limbs will kindly be passed over.)
And in a minute or less I heard a fluttering noise on some wood. With mounting trepidation I looked at the bookcase, to be rewarded by the sight of the foul being ascending to its very top. It did so with some difficulty, I was pleased to note. Evidently the spray had reached it somewhere. But no sooner did it reach the top than did the loathsome creature take a flying dive onto my bed. This time the shriek was a scream while we both struggled to get out of the bedclothes and into a clearer position for our fight. If my exit was a trifle ignominious we shall pass over that too.
We feinted around my bedroom floor, it looking for cover among certain items left on the floor (my bag and the discman) while I pulled them away. Finally it collapsed under my bed, where it now lies panting for breath and – hopefully – dying.
I have concluded from its behaviour that the rapacious beast indeed has no mothers or sisters at home. Then again, considering that its home was where I store my beloved books, that is probably something to be grateful for.