US EXCLUSIVELY. IN WHICH CASE WE WOULD BE MORE THAN HAPPY TO ABANDON THE REST OF THE HOUSE TO YOU –
‘– But I'm rather pleased by the way you've been helping me –’
– APART THAT IS FOR THE WORK WE NEED TO DO TO HELP YOU.
‘I see. Well, I'll give it some thought.’
And he did, but really Jonathan's mind was already made up. The insects were proving such capable little friends. He no longer found them revolting at all, and when he saw them at work on the carpet he would bend down so as to catch whatever expressions might be contained in their alien faces. He also found their assistance in his toilet not simply helpful, but peculiarly sensual.
At night the moths tapped at the panes of the bathroom window until he allowed them access, and then they would blanket him with their softly pulsing wings. They tenderly licked away the encrusted sweat and dirt of the day, before drying him off with teasing flutterings of their wings. He didn't bridle when the silverfish on the draining-board suggested that he might like some of the beetles and earwigs to seek out the more intimate portions of his body and give them a thorough scouring as well.
Jonathan wondered if he had ever felt in more harmony with his environment. Not only that, but wondered if the grosser manipulations of human intercourse weren't becoming altogether more alien to his nature than these subtlest of digitations. In the morning he walked into Inwardleigh and bought ten pounds of pork sausages at Khan's. ‘Barbecue?’ asked Mr Khan, quadra-chinned today. ‘Not exactly,’ Jonathan replied.
He laid them out in the spare bedroom on the white plastic trays he had taken from the fridge. He left the door open for most of the day, but when evening came the silverfish told him that there was no need for this. So he shut the door and fell asleep in his voluntarily insect-free cottage.
The next morning, when Jonathan peeked inside the spare bedroom he felt a rush of paternal pride to see the bulging, bluing aspect of the rotting sausages, each one stippled with the white nodules that indicated the presence of maggots. Maggots chewing, maggots growing, maggots that he had gifted life to. A group of female flies who had been methodically working their way across the last five pounds or so of sausages, injecting their eggs into the putrefying meat, rose as he entered the room, and executed what looked to Jonathan like a gay curtsey, acknowledging his assistance and his suzerainty.
He worked steadily all morning. One particularly faithful fly proved the most adept of wordfinders, shuffling over the open spread of the OED until it found the correct entry, and then squatting there, gently agitating its wings, so as to act as a living cursor.
MORE MEAT? queried the silverfish on the draining-board, when he went in to make a sandwich at lunch. ‘I'll think about it,’ Jonathan replied, tossing them a sliver of ham to be getting on with. Then he retreated to the study, to phone for a cab to pick Joy up from the station.
Jonathan was so engrossed in the index that he didn't hear the squeal of brakes as Joy's cab pulled up outside the cottage. ‘I'm home!’ she trilled from the front door, and Jonathan experienced the same revulsion at the sound of her voice as he'd had on the phone. Why must she sound so high-pitched, so mindlessly insistent? She came into the study and they embraced. ‘Have you got a fiver for the cab, darling?’
‘Um . . . um . . . hold on a sec.’ He plumped his pockets abstractedly. ‘Sorry, not on me. I think there's a pile of loose change up in the spare bedroom . . .’
Jonathan listened to her feet going up the stairs. He listened to the door of the spare bedroom open, he heard the oppressive, giant, fluttering hum, as she was engulfed, then he rose and went out to pay the cab.
A STORY FOR EUROPE
‘W ir-wir,’ gurgled Humpy, pushing his little fingers into the bowl of spaghetti Miriam had just cooked for him. He lifted his
‘– But I'm rather pleased by the way you've been helping me –’
– APART THAT IS FOR THE WORK WE NEED TO DO TO HELP YOU.
‘I see. Well, I'll give it some thought.’
And he did, but really Jonathan's mind was already made up. The insects were proving such capable little friends. He no longer found them revolting at all, and when he saw them at work on the carpet he would bend down so as to catch whatever expressions might be contained in their alien faces. He also found their assistance in his toilet not simply helpful, but peculiarly sensual.
At night the moths tapped at the panes of the bathroom window until he allowed them access, and then they would blanket him with their softly pulsing wings. They tenderly licked away the encrusted sweat and dirt of the day, before drying him off with teasing flutterings of their wings. He didn't bridle when the silverfish on the draining-board suggested that he might like some of the beetles and earwigs to seek out the more intimate portions of his body and give them a thorough scouring as well.
Jonathan wondered if he had ever felt in more harmony with his environment. Not only that, but wondered if the grosser manipulations of human intercourse weren't becoming altogether more alien to his nature than these subtlest of digitations. In the morning he walked into Inwardleigh and bought ten pounds of pork sausages at Khan's. ‘Barbecue?’ asked Mr Khan, quadra-chinned today. ‘Not exactly,’ Jonathan replied.
He laid them out in the spare bedroom on the white plastic trays he had taken from the fridge. He left the door open for most of the day, but when evening came the silverfish told him that there was no need for this. So he shut the door and fell asleep in his voluntarily insect-free cottage.
The next morning, when Jonathan peeked inside the spare bedroom he felt a rush of paternal pride to see the bulging, bluing aspect of the rotting sausages, each one stippled with the white nodules that indicated the presence of maggots. Maggots chewing, maggots growing, maggots that he had gifted life to. A group of female flies who had been methodically working their way across the last five pounds or so of sausages, injecting their eggs into the putrefying meat, rose as he entered the room, and executed what looked to Jonathan like a gay curtsey, acknowledging his assistance and his suzerainty.
He worked steadily all morning. One particularly faithful fly proved the most adept of wordfinders, shuffling over the open spread of the OED until it found the correct entry, and then squatting there, gently agitating its wings, so as to act as a living cursor.
MORE MEAT? queried the silverfish on the draining-board, when he went in to make a sandwich at lunch. ‘I'll think about it,’ Jonathan replied, tossing them a sliver of ham to be getting on with. Then he retreated to the study, to phone for a cab to pick Joy up from the station.
Jonathan was so engrossed in the index that he didn't hear the squeal of brakes as Joy's cab pulled up outside the cottage. ‘I'm home!’ she trilled from the front door, and Jonathan experienced the same revulsion at the sound of her voice as he'd had on the phone. Why must she sound so high-pitched, so mindlessly insistent? She came into the study and they embraced. ‘Have you got a fiver for the cab, darling?’
‘Um . . . um . . . hold on a sec.’ He plumped his pockets abstractedly. ‘Sorry, not on me. I think there's a pile of loose change up in the spare bedroom . . .’
Jonathan listened to her feet going up the stairs. He listened to the door of the spare bedroom open, he heard the oppressive, giant, fluttering hum, as she was engulfed, then he rose and went out to pay the cab.
A STORY FOR EUROPE
‘W ir-wir,’ gurgled Humpy, pushing his little fingers into the bowl of spaghetti Miriam had just cooked for him. He lifted his
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