Just when you settle yourself in for the night, you discover a horde of six legged beasties having a party in your kitchen cupboard. They’ve left the biscuits and Bella’s lollipops alone, and gone straight for the Demazin and Claratyne, the little druggies. In fact, some appear to have expired from all their fun.
After spending half an hour hunting down and wiping them from the face of the kitchen (using a damp cloth, of course) you get into your well-worn groove about how Wellington has no decent cold weather to keep these sorts of insects at bay. That keeping your jam in the fridge is unnatural. That down south it’s not like this – that you hadn’t even seen a cockroach before you moved up to this sub-tropical haven of insect pestilence.
Becky’s heard it all before. Your rant trails off into irrelevant grumbling. Hang up your pipe, old boy: it’s time for bed.