Can anybody out in blogland tell me how to get a cockroach out of a wall clock? My kitchen clock to be precise, where he relocated after being turfed out of the toaster. I'm quite nifty at trapping huntsman spiders in jars but cockroaches don't seem to be as clingy so the little bleeder whipped up the wall and into the clock. He's still there, as far as I know, unless he's the Michael Palin of roaches and managed to navigate to the linen cupboard at the other end of the house. That one didn't get away.
I've never known such an invasion of critters into the house. Silverfish are treating the bathroom and toilet like Disneyworld. Just lately I've taken to giving the toilet roll a bit of a bash, just in case. Supposedly sprinkling talcum powder on their antennae disorients them and they can't get back to the nest, hidey hole, whatever. I have enough powder on the bathroom floor (my mother's best advice, always have a white floor, you'll never notice the powder) to confuse the bejabbers out of them but they seem to be using it as a ski slope.
I'm well supplied with huntsmans as well. I know about the one in the study. He's a cunning one, never gets on a flat surface where I can slap a glass on him so he's safe, for the moment. I didn't need his friend on the back of the toilet door though. Nothing like settling in for a bit of navel contemplating and looking into a pair of beady eyes and knowing you just missed touching him when you opened the door. My toilet door opens outwards so he was out of range, just. One of the advantages of being single is never having to shut the door otherwise one of us wouldn't have made it out alive. You may ask why the door opens outwards and I will only give the bare outline; Southern Cross Hotel, very snooty event, heavily pregnant, small toilet, door opening inwards, trapped, embarassment. Another spider soul saved by whacking it on the end of an incense stick and out the window.
Fast forward to yesterday's junk mail, a shake to dislodge cockroach and huntsman lands on ample bazookas. A screaming reflex flick lands him on the drive where he stands, fangs on view and dares me to go past while starting to inch forward. He's really lucky I didn't have shoes, maybe not shoes, hobnail boots, large heavy hobnail boots. I went round him, tiptoeing through the bindii.
Two nights back, in the shower, middle of the night, I missed my chance to hold a Daddy Long Legs and ask him where the cows were. I don't shower with my glasses on and I can't find the soap if I drop it so when something slides down my face and it's not water, I think I can be forgiven if I rip its legs off, accidently. I should have held it gently and asked questions, like hell. I mean if he'd swung a little more towards the taps he'd have been safe but not. landing. on. me.
Don't get me started on the size of the blowflies. They lumber through the house like B52's on a mission and flyspray doesn't help unless you actually hit them with the can. I shut the doors but they're big enough to open them, it's the only way I can think of for them to get in. I'd like to know what the birds are doing. Why aren't they eating these things? If they don't start doing their job properly, I'm not filling up the birdbaths and the seed feeding's getting cut.
Now about the cockroach in the clock...........