Cockroaches... why do you come in my house? I sweep up all my crumbs, put insecticide around the edge of every room, wash my floors with bleach, put up polite signs saying ‘No cockroaches or cold callers, thank you’, I even close all the doors in the hope that your enormous tropical girth will prevent you from squeezing underneath them and wandering willy nilly around my abode. So why, every couple of days, do I see one of your ever-expanding family in my bathroom, dead or dying? And another thing... for a creature which is supposedly so highly adapted in evolutionary terms – you’ve been on earth for millions of years, you can live a week without your head, can hold your breath for more than thirty seconds, can withstand radiation equivalent to that which is released in a nuclear explosion – you seem to have a rather large design flaw, namely, your inability to get up again once you are on your back. Of course this makes things easier for me. I can just leave you there until your hairy, spiny legs cease their manic waving, and you are no more. It’s better if I can sweep you straight into the bin, dead, than having to go through the whole squishy mess palaver every time.
But let’s be honest here. I don’t like you. You don’t like me. I don’t give you anything apart from slow death so why do you continue to come to me?
Incidentally I was thinking the other day what I would do if I had to choose between eating a worm or a cockroach (where there’s no other choice – not even death). And I think I’d rather eat a worm. That’s how much I dislike you. So there.
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