The light that kills insects

The light in my bedroom has turned into a funeral pyre.

Last night, the free-standing light (one metre tall and a tenner from Argos)  served final rites for more than one insect. It was undiscerning to what it killed: whether it was the beautiful and the damned insect drawn to the flame and destined to lead a short, combustible life; or those vicious beasts with sharp weapons whose navigation let them down in their hour of need.

The first visitor to my bedroom was a butterfly with a large milky-white wing span. It entered through the open window at about 11pm last night and fluttered in a panic around the room. Normally, I am very at ease with butterflies when they are out in the open air. But in the confined space of my room I must admit I freaked out slightly – I just don’t like things that can dive-bomb you. I am mildly ashamed at the patheticness of my reaction; it is very typically girly and I don’t really like to conform to sexual stereotypes.

I was on the phone to my friend in America and her response to my squeals was: “Why don’t you just squash it?” But there was no way I could do that. Even though I hate flying insects (especially those that look like they just walk but then surprise you with flight), I can very rarely kill them. It must be due to some innate Buddhist in me.

Just seconds after this proposed death sentence, the butterfly zoomed right into my free standing light and burnt the bottom of its wings and feet. It spiralled to the other side of my room by the cupboards to expire. My friend was confused about my apparently contradictory response: from horror at sharing my room with a winged intruder to intense empathy at its downfall.

But that wasn’t the end of it. I finished the conversation with my friend and had settled down at my computer for a late night of catching up on work when a wasp flew in through the open window. A friend had earlier remarked on his Facebook status update that he hadn’t seen a wasp all summer and now there were three in his kitchen. This was pretty much the same as me: this was my first encounter with a wasp during the months of May, June and July. (There’s a storyline in Doctor Who where all the bees have disappeared – is this an instance of fact imitating fiction? If so, it’s a welcome storyline.)

If I was disturbed by the butterfly, the wasp was ten times worse. Where the butterfly had a beautiful creamy visage, the wasp was yellow, fuzzy and angry. More importantly, it was armed: it buzzed and scoured the edges of the bedroom, looking for a victim.

I retreated to the landing, with some involuntary yelps, formulating elaborate plans to abandon the pretence of working and find a place to sleep uncomfortably in the house. Just as I reached the door, I saw the wasp land on the light. Boom! My god. I had no idea that light was quite so ferocious. There was sizzling noises, as if I was cooking a full English breakfast, and the insect Formerly Known As The Wasp, was now releasing into the atmosphere. There was so much smoke pouring from the light, it looked as if it was about to catch on fire.

I ran over and unplugged the light. The frying noises stopped and the smoke began to thin out, but there was a strong smell of burning flesh.

I went downstairs, made tea and toast to let the cooking smell upstairs disperse. I returned 15 minutes later: my bedroom still smelled of wasp death. I picked up the light and put it outside my bedroom. This morning, in an extension of my patheticness, I texted my flatmate to ask her French boyfriend to come and remove the body. At the moment, the light is still outside the door and I am working in the semi gloom like a medieval monk.

I have asked my inner Buddhist to put his hands over his ears while I make a confession. Having used up all my empathy for the butterfly, I was secretly relieved that my light could do the job that I was incapable of: extinguishing the light of a wasp. I even made an involuntary triumphant gesture when it landed on the light. I really am sorry for this.