The bastard ants

Regular readers may remember my rants about the ants last spring. Well, they’re back and they mean business.

I don’t know if it’s a seasonal thing, but my flat has suddenly been overrun by ants of all descriptions. We’ve got tiny red biting ants, whose bites leave big red swellings for days afterwards; we’ve got big black buggers, who patrol the floor of my sitting room and give the most painful bites I’ve ever had from an insect; and we’ve got little black ‘uns, comparatively harmless, but bloody everywhere.

I noticed the first ones a few days ago, criss-crossing the wall above the dining table. They were black and small, so I ignored them. Then, I came home from work to discover a black stain on the floor that, when I approached appeared to dissolve in all directions at once. A dead cockroach makes a nutritious meal for most of the ants in the sodding neighbourhood, apparently.

And now they’re everywhere. In my grapes, on my table, emerging from the plughole in my sink… there isn’t a place these ants will pass over. I made the mistake of dropping a fragment of Crème Egg wrapper (from a crème egg, lovingly sent by my sister) during a blackout one night, and awoke the next morning to find it heaving with ants.

Now that I understand. If I’m going to do something so stupid as leave sticky chocolate wrappers lying around, I’ve got to expect an ant party. Of course ants want crème egg goo, delicious as it is. But what do they want with the dreggs of my (unsweetened) coffee? And how dare they attempt to infest my goddamn oats? Not to mention violating my water filter, which I really feel is taking the piss.

I think me and the bastard ants need to sit down and try to come to some sort of mutual understanding about what is and what isn’t fair game in this flat. Otherwise, the only option is war. And I really don’t like the odds on me plus a can of Mortein, versus an army of endless ants.