There must be a couple of dozen ant colonies dotted around our 'estate'. Most of them the kind of ant we all see - the little blackish ones. Some are a reddy orange colour ( are they worse? ). And this time of year seems to be the point at which the blighters grow wings and decide to fly off somewhere. All at once. All in the space of about 15 minutes.
I was happily satisfying my hunger pangs with a marvellous ham, lettuce and whole-grain mustard mayo roll when my wife, who had lovingly created said roll, drew my attention to the porch of Cosy Nook. The porch is of a wooden construction, painted a glorious Windsor blue and was gleaming in the August sun. Also gleaming were the wings of several hundred 'flying' ants who had clearly decided that the porch made a splendid take-off point. Without my glasses, this mass exodus may have appeared as an overflow of water from the gutter, spilling in a rippled flow down the side of the porch. But my glasses were in place, bringing the horror of a legion of flying ants clearly into focus.
My wife, determined to sort this predicament out, busied herself in the outbuilding, searching, hands a-blur for something chemical with which to obliterate the evil flow, while I ducked inside for my camera. I ducked out and ducked in again after realising my memory card was still jammed into the card reader on my computer. And by the time we'd both organised ourselves; me with camera switched on, lens cap removed, setting on 'close up'; Karon with some Nippon product or other in her hand - they'd gone. All of them.
Later that day, we experienced yet another colony of ants setting up a mini Heathrow, right next to where I was perfectly barbecuing some sausages (plain pork for the wife; pork, basil, pepper and olive for me - nom nom nom ). These eejuts were smaller yet far more irritating. Those of the Windsor blue porch simply launched themselves off into the air with, much like Easyjet passengers, little idea of where they were going but up they went, high into the sky and away. Those of the barbecue area equally had little idea of where they were going but insisted on alighting on me, in my beer or on my fabulous food.
Now, when your average fly does that it's only natural to attempt to kill the bloody thing, n'est ce pas? And as devious, surreptitious or downright cunning one's efforts are, ninety-nine times out of a hundred it'll clear off - just as you're within an inch of a successful kill. Also, ninety-nine times out of a hundred one ends up breaking, spilling, knocking over or flicking six feet whatever it was that the damned fly was wiping its feet on at the time.
Not so with your flying ant. It's hopeless. You could take a run up in slow-motion a la Chariots of Fire, bring your poised flicking finger down at a nudge under snail's pace, daub a protester's placard with 'Look out ant, I'm going to flick you into oblivion' and present it to the muppet with your non-flicking hand, yell at it to get the hell out of the way and still have approximately five minutes in which to line up your shot. Ping! It's gone. Doesn't even make any effort towards an escape. It just lands on you, which seems to throw it into a whole world of confusion, turns round a couple of times and then starts a drunken crawl. What's the point?
I'm no naturalist. There's obviously some great reason for it in the mysteriously fascinating world of nature - easy pickings for hungry swallows? Whatever it is, I wish they wouldn't do it when I'm enjoying a beer in the sun and a deliciously turned out sausage or two...
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