Some of you may have noticed that I took a slight break from blogging for about a week now. You have probably come to one of three conclusions as to why this was:
1) I was working (I’m always working, so this is nothing new)
2) I had blogger’s block (not likely, 80 posts in drafts and counting, bitches)
3) London Wine Week got the better of me (I bloody wish)
The truth is somewhat more interesting. Let’s start with the fact that I’ve been binge watching old school Buffy The Vampire Slayer on Netflix lately. Mostly because new school Buffy the Vampire Slayer doesn’t actually exist. Now, here’s the thing: I didn’t watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer when it originally aired and I was actually a teenager and part of the 16 year old girl audience the whole thing was obviously aimed at. No frigging idea why, because a lot of my friends did (my boyfriend at the time was madly in love with Sarah Michelle Gellar) and I remember thinking David Boreanaz was as hot and tasty as a piggy on a spit.
Now that I’ve got a couple of seasons under my belt, I know a few truths about the series:
1. I was totally right about David Boreanaz.
2. It’s not necessary to wear sensible shoes to be an effective slayer.
After just a few episodes I began to suspect something else. We’re not too different, Buffy and I. However, while she as the world’s only vampire slayer and therefore saviour had a super important job that came with a librarian assistant guy who made sure she knew her fate by the age of 16 at most, I have been somewhat left on my own to figure out my fate. So I’m almost twice her age before I’ve learnt about my mysterious calling.
I am Frankie the Moth Slayer and I shall destroy all ye winged demons who enter thy property unlawfully in order to munch on expensive cashmere and merino jumpers when they think you’re not looking because it’s almost summer and fuck it why the hell should you bother to pick that shit up off the floor just to hide it in a drawer, you’re only gonna be looking for it again in 6 months. Yep, I’m here to kill those wankers. Fuck that shit.
The parallels between moth slaying and vampire slaying are uncanny. Both flit around in the night and are up to no good. Both need a good stabbing. Both evaporate into a weird powder substance with a bit of a *POOF* when successfully infiltrated with a pointy object.
I have practiced my murderous technique long and hard, trained by my husband who has always been deadly with a tea towel in hand. An old rag is my weapon of choice, and now I have mastered the wrist action to the point where I can kill a moth without second thought, thus giving me opportunity to really nail down my banshee squeal and spinning high kick flourish. It all adds to the drama and intensifies the danger these flying fucks feel as they perch nervously on my ceiling just waiting for the opportunity to shred my cardigans.
Death starts early in the morning when you are the chosen moth slayer. I’ve usually slaughtered several before 6am, careful to leave their powdery carcass smeared across the wall where later moth legions are sure to see the carnage that has passed before them. Maybe they’ll do the sensible thing and turn back. Maybe.
If not I carry on my day, keeping a watchful on on the corners and crevices where these cretins lurk. Fly spray can be an effective weapon in order to confuse the enemy and lure them out from their hidey holes in a muggy haze, but it will not finish the job. A final flick is the only way. Occasionally a dare devil will make himself known by flaunting his levitating ass right in front of my face while I relax on the sofa, metres away from my flicky rag. This ends badly for the dare devil as a cushion can easily be employed to squish his show off brains out as he attempts to round the bit of wall that juts out beside me. Fuck you moth, I am the chosen one.
I even destroyed a community of giant, weird creepy moths that decided to hang out in the bathrooms at work watching me pee. They then tried to infiltrate the office hallways and this was the final straw. These were a different breed, and only needed a simple spraying with Raid, but I have reason to believe they had some communication with the spider community, who have also suffered badly from my sudden tendency for vengeance.
I get it, creepy crawlies need to exist. But fuck em if they think they’re existing in my personal space and chowing down on my personal belongings. Just all of the no.
My name is Frankie. I am the slayer. If killing shit is wrong, I don’t want to be right.
(In summary, yes I’m back blogging. I will try and catch up on my reading. In fact, your blog is the next blog I’m gonna read. Lucky you.)