Trashed elbow

Received wisdom: if one happens to cut off a cockroach's head, the body will continue to scuttle around until it dies of starvation (not being able to feed with no mouth.)

How is the cause of death proven, I wonder? Is it not possible that the cockroach expires from pneumonia, unaccustomed as it is to the cool breeze on its exposed neck? Could it be that, disillusioned with continually bumping into things, the headless cockroach does not die but simply gives up and decides to procrastinate instead?

Entertain, if you will, the notion that the cockroach is, like Dan, one of nature's daydreamers. With a body capable of doing pretty much everything on autopilot, the brain of the idealistic young cockroach- scarcely bigger than an ant- is free to wander where it will.

What does the bug dream of as it scuttles across the kitchen floor? Perhaps it dreams of travelling to some truly grimy place, where it can frolic all day with its cockroach brethren; or maybe it yearns to infiltrate some ostensibly clean and sanitary place, to the great chagrin of all humans present: an operating theatre or suchlike.

Either way, its dreams are brought to an untimely halt by the intervention of Dan, a piece of tissue paper and a quick trip to the lavatory for a crash course in swimming / holding one's breath.

***


I shake my head as I watch the young cockroach disappearing around the u-bend, taking with it a lifetime's worth of unfulfilled potential: so much skulking left unskulked. But I am meant to be looking after Andrew's apartment while he's out of the country, chasing white elephants of his own.

Thus far, I've managed to set fire to a frying pan, set fire to my own foot and now I can add cockroaches to the list of entomological delights; a list previously dominated by the ravenous mosquitoes.

At least none of the plants are dead yet, although I really will have to make a few improvements before my erstwhile benefactor returns from China.