After a wonderful trip back to the UK and France for my birthday, where my only complaint was that the time was too short, I returned to my apartment where the cockroach genocide continues.
Before moving into the apartment, I requested that it be fumigated. You would not genuinely believe that this was done, as the cockroach to human body-mass ratio is strongly tipped in favour of the beetley menaces, except for the fact that every few days, they emerge from their hiding places and spontaneously breathe their last breathes in the middle of the floor. It encourages me to wear my slippers in the mornings.
So before I left, there was an ant-cockroach showdown (a picture that I put on Facebook). Unbelievably and most-unexpectedly, the ants won. It made me question all the facts that I have heard about cockroaches and nuclear fallout.
There was also a particularly traumatic incident (before I had bought any cockroach spray) where a cockroach became trapped inside a saucepan (to anyone who attended my house-warming party : yes, the saucepan that I cooked the beans in). The bottom of the saucepan was uneven, so when I approached it, this little guy would run around in a mad panic, making a very traumatic rattling sound on the floor the shook me to the very soul. I planned to end this situation by using an (oven-gloved) hand to (very carefully) turn the saucepan on its side, so he could make a run for his hole... but as soon as he emerged from the pan, he promptly had a heart attack and died... and I felt like I wasn't far off.
On returning to Kampala, I was prepared to adopt a more tolerant approach. When they are already dead I will dispose of the bodies, but otherwise there will be a live-and-let-live policy at all times.
That was until last night. One guy overstepped the mark and the cease-fire is over. He came one step too close to the thing that I hold dearest and so I took my can of insecticide, closed my eyes and mouth and sprayed like my very being depended on it.
No More Mrs Nice Guy.
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