Ever since I wrote a song about moths I have noticed that more and more of them seem to be taking up residence in my closet. I don’t want to have this kind of relationship with my music. Life imitating art is decidedly spooky. And besides, the moth dies in the song. You hear that, moths? No. They hear nothing. Nothing but the high-pitched sounds made by predatory bats, of which there is a bewildering dearth in my bedroom.
I am sorry to sound vindictive; I have always let moths be, small and apparently harmless as they are. Even when I saw one or two of them sculling around in my knicker drawer. How naive. And then yesterday I made an alarming discovery. The moths are eating my clothes! And not just any clothes. My nicest, most expensive woollen jumpers. These moths, whom I have allowed to co-habit with me, no questions asked, are now repaying me by destroying the very shirts off my back!
But it’s more sinister than that. Researching into the habits of moths, I discover that they just want to get close to me. They particularly like to eat through clothes that have traces of sweat, skin and oil from human hair. Next thing I know I’m going to wake up in the night to find one of them staring at me with a manic, desperate look in its eyes. Perverts! Rooting through my wardrobe looking for bodily secretions. I feel unclean. They cannot be allowed to continue. For their own sake as well as mine. It would be cruel to let them think that this is normal, healthy behaviour. Something must be done. There may be no survivors.