I am not sure London is really designed for hot weather. I mean, I like it as much as the next man when ladies bare their white legs to the sun, when the gardens start to blossom, and when Wimbledon isn’t rained off. But there are some things I don’t like about summer, and chief among them is bugs.

The last few days offer cases in point. My flat is on the first floor, and for some reasons, flies love it (and no, it’s not rotting meat – I am very very careful about that, and nor do I have any decomposing corpses under the floor boards), so when I am working during the day, and it’s hot, I leave the window open.  Until this week, I just had good old-fashioned British flies buzzing in. Usually I would leave them alone and hope they had the sense to go back out again, and every now and again, they do.  Mostly I have to take the killer tea towel to them, stun them and chuck them out of the window. Those are the sort of flies I don’t mind. well, not too much.

But now, after a couple of days of 90-degree heat, I have some new invaders.  Some are tiny little buggers that sit at the top of the window, and bigger blighters: our little friends the flying ants.

 

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