Well, my dears, six moths in the cereal cupboard this morning, and one larva clinging to a bag of mixed nuts. What on earth have I done to deserve this? Please don’t answer that. I am beginning to believe each moth has been personally hired to torment me by Mr X. I can imagine the scene. X sitting at a desk. A small moth perching across from him, looking up, wings aflutter. X saying, ‘now, I don’t want you to leave until she’s gone completely nuts, do you understand?’ The moth replies, in a thin, piping voice, ‘is that mixed nuts? Or assorted cashews?’ Then they both start doing that horrible ‘ha ha Ha HA’ mad-dictator-world-domination laugh.
The scene changes. It is the crack of dawn. The preciouses are still tucked into their beds, dreaming of the enormous Easter eggs to come. I am downstairs, thinking of eggs of quite a different type. Thanks to dear Potty Mummy, I am now fully clued-up on the Pantry Moth, a dastardly beast that will scoff your flour as soon as look at you, and dump its larvae all over your breakfast cereal. At least I’m not dealing with panty moths, I suppose. My weapons, as suggested by sweet Nunhead Mum of One, are my trusty vacuum and a multitude of cleaning sprays. Unfortunately, I’ve just finished my last drop of lovely Illicit Bang, and am down to the stuff I bought before I discovered it, like Sainsbury’s multi-purpose kitchen spray (v dull) or my latest, slightly disappointing acquisition, Mr Muscle Frozen Lime and Vinegar. Hm, now why on earth is it that I am strangely drawn to cleaning products with a whiff of sex or masculinity about them? I just can’t think ……Anyway, NMO has recommended using something with bleach. I don’t know what Mr Muscle has in him, but I fear it’s not bleach and it’s certainly not frozen limes. Oh well, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.
I fling open all the cupboard doors. Nothing stirs. And then, the faintest flicker of a wing. It’s mayhem for an hour. I am completely sickened by the knowledge that my children have probably been ingesting moth larvae along with their cornflakes for months. Finally, I subside into a chair as Child One and Two troop into the kitchen. ‘What’s for breakfast, Mummy?’ they ask. ‘Er,’ I say, scanning the bare – but incredibly clean and shiny – shelves. ‘How about some nice….. yoghurt?’