Impromptu Guests
He will only eat mushrooms or rotting plants. After supper he emits a strong smell not dissimilar to ammonia and his 14 legs pose something of a problem for even the grandest placement. As house guests go, the woodlice are not the first choice for the aspiring (or even practised) hostess. But then this ruthless social interloper doesn’t wait for an invitation. To paraphrase the old adage, his calling card reads: su casa es mi casa.
For anyone who has thought about following the current decorating trend for exposed brickwork, here’s a tip: think again. I accept that there are entomological fans out there who might find Mr Woodlice’s exoskeletons fascinating, essential even to the evolutionary map of our remarkable planet. The fact that they don’t need to go shopping for a new coat and instead are capable of growing a new, bespoke, number is admittedly impressive, but do you really want them crawling around like a moving carpet when all the other guests have left? I suspect not.
Their miniscule antennae teamed with the two ‘uropods’, that stick out from the back of their bodies, give them an unerring capacity for ‘seeing in the dark’ (even the most stylish of lamps fail to woo them). Like bats, they don’t come alive until the rest of us have gone to bed. Unlike bats however, they are not fluffy, or weirdly endearing.
I bore you with all this detail about these prehistoric minibeasts because Rock House now appears to have become Woodlouse HQ. At first, they confined their occupation to the old stone Georgian trough that passes for a sink. Applying the kettle to the cold tap for early-morning tea inevitably involved flushing a dozen of them down the plughole. ‘No biggy’ as the young people say. You’d think they’d get the message, but no, now they have migrated to the authentic brick scullery floor.
I mentioned my small creature (large) problem to my neighbour Sally. Being a gardener (and a hardy traveller), hers was a more robust approach to the dark forces of the insect world. Would I have to pull up the authentic brick floor? Sally, tragically, said it might have to come to that – they do love brick. ‘But you just might try giving it a good wash first.’
Next week: Hastings is on holiday
For anyone who has thought about following the current decorating trend for exposed brickwork, here’s a tip: think again. I accept that there are entomological fans out there who might find Mr Woodlice’s exoskeletons fascinating, essential even to the evolutionary map of our remarkable planet. The fact that they don’t need to go shopping for a new coat and instead are capable of growing a new, bespoke, number is admittedly impressive, but do you really want them crawling around like a moving carpet when all the other guests have left? I suspect not.
Their miniscule antennae teamed with the two ‘uropods’, that stick out from the back of their bodies, give them an unerring capacity for ‘seeing in the dark’ (even the most stylish of lamps fail to woo them). Like bats, they don’t come alive until the rest of us have gone to bed. Unlike bats however, they are not fluffy, or weirdly endearing.
I bore you with all this detail about these prehistoric minibeasts because Rock House now appears to have become Woodlouse HQ. At first, they confined their occupation to the old stone Georgian trough that passes for a sink. Applying the kettle to the cold tap for early-morning tea inevitably involved flushing a dozen of them down the plughole. ‘No biggy’ as the young people say. You’d think they’d get the message, but no, now they have migrated to the authentic brick scullery floor.
I mentioned my small creature (large) problem to my neighbour Sally. Being a gardener (and a hardy traveller), hers was a more robust approach to the dark forces of the insect world. Would I have to pull up the authentic brick floor? Sally, tragically, said it might have to come to that – they do love brick. ‘But you just might try giving it a good wash first.’
Next week: Hastings is on holiday