mro

For one very very hot day of the year Jersey is infested with hoards of flying ants. Today is that day. The little baby ants have been left under the bush by the big, flying stork and have decided today will be the day they dry their little wings in the summer sun and fly for the first time.

To paraphrase Mr Michael Caine "Ants! Faaasands of 'em!"

In the main they are remarkably stupid creatures, moreso than pigeons. At least pigeons know to fly out of the way of my size 9 black leather Church's before they get stepped on and squished. Needless to say, there will be many a distraught Mother Ant waiting in vain for the return of little Jimmy Ant from his first venture at flying.

One ant, however, died a very very happy death. I wish I was that ant:

I was walking up Queen Street when I heard a squeal from a delightfuly firm bodied, perky breasted young girl. An ant had flown down her top. For one brief moment I was hoping she would call for the assistance of a nimble fingered stockbroker to reach into her bra and remove the offending animal. Or, at the very least, ask the aforementioned stockbroker to hold her bag while she removed her brassiere to allow the ant to fly away of it's own volition.

Alas, neither occurred. She swatted it herself, and I went home alone, dejected and wishing I was the ant currently plastered all over her little bosom. *sigh*