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started a few weeks up here, mainly because i said i wouldnt wash again unless we scored in the Loft end again....... its gonna be a long buzzy summer.
They are annoying although insect numbers have actually fallen by a worrying 40% and, I read the other day, the number of flying insects is down 60%
I was cycling on my own in the Austrian mountains once many years ago and when the road emerged from the forest I was absolutely mobbed by flies. It was horrific, I was trying to swat them away with my bicycle pump. Ugh
"Things had started becoming increasingly desperate at Loftus Road but QPR have been handed a massive lifeline and the place has absolutely erupted. it's carnage. It's bedlam. It's 1-1."
They are annoying although insect numbers have actually fallen by a worrying 40% and, I read the other day, the number of flying insects is down 60%
I was cycling on my own in the Austrian mountains once many years ago and when the road emerged from the forest I was absolutely mobbed by flies. It was horrific, I was trying to swat them away with my bicycle pump. Ugh
When it's a humid day, running through the marshes is horrendous. I wear a neck gaiter to protect from inhaling them - eaten too many of them in the past.
When it's a humid day, running through the marshes is horrendous. I wear a neck gaiter to protect from inhaling them - eaten too many of them in the past.
Maybe Ainsworth can use some analogy about dealing with fricking ants and if anyone mentions daddy long-legs, surely the time for god awful shithousery !!!
They are annoying although insect numbers have actually fallen by a worrying 40% and, I read the other day, the number of flying insects is down 60%
I was cycling on my own in the Austrian mountains once many years ago and when the road emerged from the forest I was absolutely mobbed by flies. It was horrific, I was trying to swat them away with my bicycle pump. Ugh
I've got whats commonly known as an insect hotel on our South facing garage wall and all joking to one side It's currently rammed full.
My Father had a profound influence on me, he was a lunatic.
I've got whats commonly known as an insect hotel on our South facing garage wall and all joking to one side It's currently rammed full.
Nice one, Ted. I garden for wildlife too
"Things had started becoming increasingly desperate at Loftus Road but QPR have been handed a massive lifeline and the place has absolutely erupted. it's carnage. It's bedlam. It's 1-1."
They are annoying although insect numbers have actually fallen by a worrying 40% and, I read the other day, the number of flying insects is down 60%
I was cycling on my own in the Austrian mountains once many years ago and when the road emerged from the forest I was absolutely mobbed by flies. It was horrific, I was trying to swat them away with my bicycle pump. Ugh
You might enjoy this piece of fly-related piece of literature, from the first chapter of one of Raymond Chandler's The Little Sister:
The pebbled glass door panel is lettered in flaked black paint: "Philip Marlowe . . . Investigations." It is a reasonably shabby door at the end of a reasonably shabby corridor in the sort of building that was new about the year the all-tile bathroom became the basis of civilization. The door is locked, but next to it is another door with the same legend which is not locked. Come on in--there's nobody in here but me and a big bluebottle fly. But not if you're from Manhattan, Kansas.
It was one of those clear, bright summer mornings we get in the early spring in California before the high fog sets in. The rains are over. The hills are still green and in the valley across the Hollywood hills you can see snow on the high mountains. The fur stores are advertising their annual sales. The call houses that specialize in sixteen-year-old virgins are doing a land-office business. And in Beverly Hills the jacaranda trees are beginning to bloom.
I had been stalking the bluebottle fly for five minutes, waiting for him to sit down. He didn't want to sit down. He just wanted to do wing-overs and sing the prologue to Pagliacci. I had the fly swatter poised in midair and I was all set. There was a patch of bright sunlight on the corner of the desk and I knew that sooner or later that was where he was going to light. But when he did, I didn't even see him at first. The buzzing stopped and there he was. And then the phone rang.
I reached for it inch by inch with a slow and patient left hand. I lifted the phone slowly and spoke into it softly: "Hold the line a moment, please."
I laid the phone down gently on the brown blotter. He was still there, shining and blue-green and full of sin. I took a deep breath and swung. What was left of him sailed halfway across the room and dropped to the carpet. I went over and picked him up by his good wing and dropped him into the wastebasket.
You might enjoy this piece of fly-related piece of literature, from the first chapter of one of Raymond Chandler's The Little Sister:
The pebbled glass door panel is lettered in flaked black paint: "Philip Marlowe . . . Investigations." It is a reasonably shabby door at the end of a reasonably shabby corridor in the sort of building that was new about the year the all-tile bathroom became the basis of civilization. The door is locked, but next to it is another door with the same legend which is not locked. Come on in--there's nobody in here but me and a big bluebottle fly. But not if you're from Manhattan, Kansas.
It was one of those clear, bright summer mornings we get in the early spring in California before the high fog sets in. The rains are over. The hills are still green and in the valley across the Hollywood hills you can see snow on the high mountains. The fur stores are advertising their annual sales. The call houses that specialize in sixteen-year-old virgins are doing a land-office business. And in Beverly Hills the jacaranda trees are beginning to bloom.
I had been stalking the bluebottle fly for five minutes, waiting for him to sit down. He didn't want to sit down. He just wanted to do wing-overs and sing the prologue to Pagliacci. I had the fly swatter poised in midair and I was all set. There was a patch of bright sunlight on the corner of the desk and I knew that sooner or later that was where he was going to light. But when he did, I didn't even see him at first. The buzzing stopped and there he was. And then the phone rang.
I reached for it inch by inch with a slow and patient left hand. I lifted the phone slowly and spoke into it softly: "Hold the line a moment, please."
I laid the phone down gently on the brown blotter. He was still there, shining and blue-green and full of sin. I took a deep breath and swung. What was left of him sailed halfway across the room and dropped to the carpet. I went over and picked him up by his good wing and dropped him into the wastebasket.
"Thanks for waiting," I said into the phone.
You can never, ever go wrong with Raymond Chandler.
Same school as P G Wodehouse, but just seven years younger. I've often wondered if they had the same English teacher.
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