Oy Vey!

It seems to me that everything has been about insects and bugs recently, in particular the period during which my brother-in-law Glyn, his wife Rolande and my nephew Robyn came over from Brittany to stay with us and our mutual cousins up in Warwickshire for a big family gathering (which is why I’ve been off the radar since Thursday). Robyn, twenty-six years old and something of an intellectual and deep thinker, is currently attempting to subsist on a mainly vegan diet. After the hog-roast lunch on Saturday my conscientious nephew informed me that he wished the world would stop killing large animals for food and switch to eating insects – including cockroaches – as a major source of protein.

“Pound for pound, insects provide a greater amount of protein than red meat, ” he informed me.

Perhaps he’s right but, being an Australian and rather squeamish about fat flying cockroaches (I prefer them flat!), I could not conceive of a more disgusting diet other than worms (and even they were an option on the “Robyn Diet”). In bed later that night I imagined what a pound of insects might look like and I smiled to myself in the darkness.

One other night, more years ago than I care to admit to, my young son James and I were sleeping over at the house of my older brother Bill and his wife Lita in Brisbane; it was Lita’s sewing room cum guest bedroom and the double bed had green satin sheets. No sooner had the lights gone out than we heard strange crackling sounds, like scrunched up balls of cellophane being rubbed together, followed by numerous thuds on the wall behind our heads. As our eyes became accustomed to the dark we saw that the wall was covered in large black elliptical blobs. “What could they be?” we wondered. I switched on the light and fifty million giant cockroaches flew, en masse, back into the net curtains from whence they came. Sadly, the aerosol tin of cockroach killer that I found in the cupboard under the kitchen sink had only one puff of noxious spray left in it… We pulled the bed out into the centre of the room and slept entirely covered by the green satin top sheet, not daring to poke our heads out for air lest the huge creatures should fancy to walk through our hair. Those were the days!

By now Robyn is back in Paris and his parents have gone to see a dear friend. Our house has been a whirlwind of activity and our new guests, from Denmark, are already ensconced in the suite upstairs. In the mid-afternoon of this gloriously sunny day – we’re having a heatwave – Chris decided to catch a few rays out on the terrace. As I came to join him in the sunshine I noticed something small and black resting on his stomach.

“What’s that?” I asked, peering closer.

Chris instinctively put his hand to his stomach and, without looking, crushed the innocent bug that had chosen him for an “air bed”.

“Oh, it was just a bug,” I said (not terribly worried about the bug’s demise).

“I suppose that’s what you’d call a “tummy bug”!” Chris quipped.

Anyway, I don’t think I’ll change my mind about eating insects, even if they sprinkle them with sugar or Cajun seasoning. The cockroaches, locusts, grasshoppers and stick insects are safe with me. Guess I’m not that hungry. Of course my gorgeous nephew is French… Don’t frogs love eating insects?