There was a cockroach on the bed last night. It was huge, antennae twitching as it perched frozen on the striped duvet cover, trying to sense our next move. Oli and I froze too, then, almost giggling nervously, had a rushed spitball about what to do.
“They’re pretty quick” he muttered, his left arm half extended towards my new Vogue lying open on the bed.
“You are not using Vogue.” I ordered, voice much braver than I was. I passed him a Spanish Cosmopolitan instead, and he leapt.
It took three slams of Monica Cruz’ frozen smile and red dress to maim it, then Oli used his Australian-learnt cockroach fighting experience to wrap it in toilet paper and flush it. The Cosmopolitan is now lying abandoned on the wooden shelves. I hope to God there aren’t any eggs on the duvet.