I had an unwelcome visitor last night. Just as I was about to sit down with my piping hot dinner, I glanced up and saw a cockroach creeping along in the kitchen, where the wall meets the ceiling.
Frankly, I was horrified. I know people who live in Sydney are used to seeing cockroaches everywhere, but those of us who reside elsewhere in the country are not. On one memorable occasion I was visiting a friend of a friend’s place in Sydney, relaxing on the couch, when I looked down and saw the dog chewing on something. Yep, a cockroach. Nobody batted an eyelid.
So I rang my formerly-Sydneysider brother-in-law Adrian for advice: he said to squash it, then be sure to find the eggs it drops.
Knowing the legends about cockroaches surviving a nuclear attack, I prepared a huge industrial-sized wad of rolled-up newspaper. (Gross bits coming up.)
I’m not sure if I was shouting and swearing at it as I killed it, but it’s quite possible. By the end of the battle it there was the stain of cockroach blood on the newspaper, and it lay dead on the floor in two pieces.
I found what looked like the eggs (little white things) and attempted to clean them up. Hopefully I got them all — I wouldn’t be happy for a little cockroach colony to settle here.
Adrian’s ominous words were ringing in my ears: “If there’s one… there’s probably more.” To which all I can say is: I’m glad I’m moving soon.