Ant

I was having a bit of a sit down this morning. I was still in my pyjamas and was greeting the dawn in my usual way of muttering “Top of the dawn to you, Lord Morning, you cheerful git. You could have phoned to say you were coming early, and don’t pull that ‘lengthening days of Spring’ crap on me because I’m not in the mood for it, now I’ve been reminded we lose an hour of sleep/productive insomnia this weekend on account of it.”

So me and The Dawn were just chatting with him mostly saying “tweet” and “sparkle” and “promise of a whole new day” type stuff and me being a sleepy ingrate, when I saw an ant weaving a complicated path across my foot. I watched it for a bit as it went round my ankle a few times, as if searching for a lost pair of spectacles or something and, gradually, it dawned on me that I couldn’t feel a thing.

I panicked immediately, of course. What was wrong with the nerves in my leg? With all that scampering about, the ant must be traversing at least a few nerve endings. Why couldn’t I feel him and them? Was he an unusual kind of goat-like mountain ant with deft and remarkable footwork which allowed him to place his 6 tiny feet exactly where my nerves wouldn’t detect him and cause me to brush him off. No, stupid girl. They don’t exist. There can be no other explanation other than I have woken up with some horrible disease which is attacking the nerves in my legs and causing them to be numb. This was clearly the case, but I am a very scientifically minded problem-child-bride and so I very carefully moved my hand down in a footwards direction to test my numb-leg theory. I felt it, the troublesome ant was banished to the carpet and all was fine again.

The world is divided many ways, obviously, but one of them seems to be between those that think nothing will bad happen to them and those that just assume something bad will. I am one of the latter and don’t consider myself to have any special immunity against anything really, except maybe wild literary success and mass adulation for getting us all ‘to somehow get along’ using only two metaphors, an eggwhisk and the ability to change two pooey nappies at one time, one hand each. At this point the nappy thing is one of my few remaining marketable skills, having been out of the workplace now for these several years with the girls.

Normally my hypochondria is reserved for my children but human mortality looked us all in the eye last night at quiz night, when we learned that, of the 8 of us, three close friends’ of friends, one under 60, one under 50 and one under 40 had all died in the last week. Makes you think a bit, that does.

None of us really needs bad news to ponder on death and mortality but, all the same, after the fleet-footed wee ant this morning, and my over-reaction to him, I vowed to be a little kinder to Lord Morning when he comes a-calling, ‘cos I’m lucky he does an’ stuff, and I pledged only to call him a git from time to time. Although these bloody cheepy birds are just asking for a ten gauge shot-gun on some of these dawns.

13 thoughts on “Ant”

  1. I’m not sure, but anyone that uses a Y in pyjamas shouldn’t be brushing ants aside. How un-American, the extensive use of that letter. And putting an unnecessary U here and there, colour. But it’s cute, and go ahead and shoot the sun if you want to.

  2. Here at the Cumbernauld Institute of Parasitology we wake up every morning with a smile on our faces. For not to wake up would be sad indeed. The elegant Mrs Dr McC always makes me a cup of tea before Ravel (my trusty research assistant) prepares us a hearty breakfast. We gaze across the fields watching the sheep gambling in the spring sunshine and laugh together as another cat falls foul of our motion-detector water-pistol. The small pleasures in life are often the most enjoyable, yes?

  3. Hope you don’t mind that I have reciprocated the blogroll love. Anyone who spells pajamas with a y in Ojai with a j is worth a read in my book.

  4. I’m glad you resisted the temptation to speak to the ant. They tend to be very aloof when you remonstrate with them. The birds, of course, can’t stop talking. The odd cat or two might persuade them to shut up for a bit.

  5. hi sami just catchin up with you, as you know i’m not the phonin type. colour pyjamas??? are you forgeting you live in the world of the simple folk now, don’t add stray letters (even if it is vital to the pronounciation of the word) ’cause it will confuse your vebally challanged neighbours ( oops, did it again). see, i do read your blogs (not as often as i would like) hope it’s ok to do so. they’re very good. keep bloggin. love
    wee niaff

  6. Mr Vegas, I might somehow sound un-American because I am, in fact, un-American. I love y’all here, and consider America a close second to Stornoway, Scotland for the title of Best Place in the Northern Hemisphere That I Have Visited (well, maybe 3rd after London, or golly, France is pretty cool too. In any case, I think America is purdy darned good). But I am a Brit, a Scot and what’s more an Outer Hebridonian and while you can take the girl out of etc. you can’t take the etc. out of the girl. Just the way it is m’afraid.

  7. Dr. McCrumble, your small pleasures sound delightful. What are your sheep doing gambling though? How do they deal the cards with their cloven wee hooves?

    Mom101, thankee for your blog-love! Very decent of you, and I send you an enormous problem-free-child-bride hug to you and your beautiful wee girl.

    Mr. Nanas, not our cat. She is scared of crows and her tummy is now too bulbous to effectively catch even a lame penguin.

    Wee Niaff. Hello, hello hello, wee bro! Thank-you for visiting! I think you are probably the only one of the family to know of/bear to come and read PCB without having to peep at the screen through your fingertips. Really looking forward to seeing you and Laura in May. Please do come back and visit again. Comment too! My site-meter tells me I have about 40 ‘lurkers’ a day, which is great – I lurk at others’ sites too – but it’s cheery and fun to get comments. I’ve met some great people with this malarky – check out the Blogroll links on the side. They need updating and adding to but I’ll do that when I get back from Minneapolis.

    Fatmammycat, welcome! I’m dead chuffed you’ve visited; Sadly, we’re not accepting odd cats at the moment as the position has been filled by our own ludicrous and very odd cat, Trouble. You rock, by the way.

  8. Vintage? Vintage? I’m only 31! Kate asked me the other day why I had stripes on my forehead. I went to the mirror to try and see what she meant and couldn’t find what was wrong. Slowly, as my 31 visage looked back at me in puzzlement, I realized she meant the ever-developing wrinkles on my forehead. Bless her and her stake-through-the-heart honesty.

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