The cockroach

I’m staying for a few weeks in a semi-basement studio in Malcolm Street. I hadn’t realised that this is an exceedingly ‘good’ address’ until people started to comment on it. I had wondered what the rather large, grand building opposite me is – turns out to be the state parliament.

Cockroaches pay no heed to the fanciness of one’s address.  On a particularly bad morning of illness, I got up to find a roach on its back, dead in front of the sink.  It was a couple of days before I could face any clearing up, let alone disposing of my new house chum. When I came to it, somehow the roach had moved to the middle of the studio floor, still on its back.  I might have unknowingly  kicked it across the floor; on the other hand, when I looked closely, a couple of legs waved back at me.  Advice to squeamish – stop reading now.  I know that cockroaches are notoriously difficult to kill. I’m afraid I finished this one off with boiling water on its belly. Worked a treat and I have seen no relatives – yet.