So, I've moved in with my beautiful girlfriend who has less than beautiful interests. I've been subjected to all manner of vapid reality television shows and the cacophonous bickering of Jeremy Kyle. Matter of fact, the modern gladiatorial pantomime is the backdrop the key-tapping which is creating this blog. How enjoyable.
The interest that I find most difficult to deal with is her obsession with horror films. I've witnessed murders, possessions, stalking, house invasions, mutilation, monsters and more screaming than my days should contain. When you are inundated with horror it can have a rather profound effect on your mindset.
We had just finished watching a double-header of Ginger Snaps and Playback, the former about a teenage girl turning into a werewolf, the latter about people being possessed through old videos. We were sat in the living room, facing the tv, with the entirety of the house behind us. There's nothing that'll induce paranoid twitching glances behind your back than empty space, pregnant with creepy possibilities. It was time for bed.
I made my way to the bathroom for some pre-sleep ablutions when my journey was halted by a scene most horrendous. Opposite the bathroom is the door which opens up onto the back garden. The back door, if you will. Within the frame of this door is a flap, which small household animals are able to use at their convenience. At this point, the flap was locked closed.
Dripping through the loose connections were maggots. Scores of them. These particles of evil, bloated rice were oozing inside like the gunge of the blob that ate everything. A click glance to the clock; 2am. Weary eyelids sinking, we were forced to gee ourselves up, to buoy those exhausted lids and get stuck in to the grim job at hand. After we finished crying, we fenced the be-maggoted area with towels, boiled the kettle and carpet bombed the area with bleach and boiling water. This slowed the heinous devils a little, but they continued to writhe in spite of the onslaught. A minute of research on the internet suggested there was chemicals in house polish and dog shampoo which might put an end to the creatures. With a gloop and a hiss, Mr Sheen and the pink gloop of dog shampoo joined this concoction; George's Malevolent Medicine.
Under the weight of this all-or-nothing alchemical experiment, still the infernal monsters came. More and more they broke through the ill-made flap. It was time to resort to more desperate measures. Shedding my pajamas, I equipped myself with an old pair of jeans, heavy boots, rainproof coat, gloves and a trusty <spunge> beanie hat. I was now ready for the mission. As ready as I was ever going to be.
I left the house by the front door, and in the premature morning darkness I was buffeted by wind and rain. I circled around the street to the back alley, the longest walk of my life. I opened the back gate from the outside with worrying ease, and surveyed what little of the back garden I could see in the darkness. The glow from the kitchen and bathroom windows barely pushed the darkness from the perimeter of the building as I, cloaked in the darkness, crept closer to the house.
Instantly I recognised the horrifying source of all our problems. Bin bags had built up faster than they should have, due to a housewarming barbeque we'd hosted. These bags had not yet been picked up, and had therefore been sat in the back garden, fermenting under a blazing summer sun, the maggot equivalent of an episode of Grand Designs. Escaping the night's cold and rain, these wiggling horrors were making a dash to the safety of my house.
MY HOUSE!
I snapped. Hoisting the bags to the back alley, I cut them off at the source. Then it was time to clean up. With an iron grip I brandished the sweeping brush and made for the back door. The head of a bottle of bleach appeared at the kitchen window, which I gladly availed myself of. With a spray and then a whoosh of the brush the maggots were assaulted with a foamy bleach lather and the buffeting of the sweeping brush. Hundreds, nay millions, fell to my onslaught as I brushed the back step and the actual door itself. Innocent slugs were caught in the crossfire, sacrifices in the face of dire emergency. After the berserker brush-rage cooled, the back step was clear of visible horrors. Red-faced and short of breath, I retraced my way to the front of the house.
Removing my outer-armour as I re-entered, I surveyed the breach by the back door. Still the internal monsters wriggled. It was now nearing 4am. These were desperate times. We fell to our knees and with gritted teeth and toilet paper in our hands we began to pop maggots.
Some people have difficulty popping spots. Popping maggots is several orders of magnitude worse. As you lift them you can feel them wriggle under the paper, and when the squeeze is put upon them not only do you feel the pop, it is terribly loud. From the bleach fumes and the wriggling, my stomach very bravely held on, but barely. The maggotcide was an arduous task which felt as though it would never end, and memories can, even now, reduce me to tears.
We defeated the maggots that night, and they have not returned since. But they are out there, I know it. The buzzing of a common fly rings ominously in my ears these days, a grim reminder of the night we spent on our knees, popping maggots with our fingers.
