Dirty Diana

In my early teens I was taught to handle guns.

This had no direct relation to the war, it’s only customary here that boys learn how to hunt at some point, and that sometimes evolves into a love for guns and things that go boom. My favorite gun didn’t go boom though, it went pssst.

This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

I named her Diana, and we spent our summer afternoons shooting flies off the garden wall. And while air-rifles only really scare mom’s petunias, the accuracy they help you develop is stunning.

On an unrelated note, I woke up last night to something poking my nose.

Wait, that’s not entirely accurate; I woke up to my right fist violently pounding my nose, in an attempt to make whatever was poking it quit. I flicked on the night light and my eyes focused on a large lizard digging into my pillow. He seemed to be on crack, and seemed not to enjoy it.

Fantastic.

Our eyes locked and he let out a menacing squeal. I lunged at him, and he was gone before I landed. The hunt was on.

My flat soon looked like a warzone. The ninja lizard had defied half a dozen laws of physics and managed to remain in sight but frustratingly out of reach for the better part of two hours. I had burned through two beers and 800 calories, and my last attempt to grab him had resulted in a scraped elbow. Oh it was on.

‘There’s someone I’d like you to meet,’ I explained. ‘Excuse me for a moment.’

I head to the attic and found Diana, along with a box of old pellets. She needed a rubdown, but she’d forgive a couple of dry shots under the circumstances. Back in the battlefield I scanned for my smug enemy, and took aim; an easy shot: ‘Say hello to my lil’ friend.’

Aaand I couldn’t do it.

It seemed the reptile was a social engineer, and with a lingering glance he was able to squeeze some sympathy from my very dry, very sleepy brain. Just enough to save his own life.

‘I can’t just let you stay here,’ I finally explained. ‘I don’t relish the idea of creepy crawlies sharing my bed.’

He was unmoved. I couldn’t catch him, I couldn’t kill him, and I couldn’t possibly sleep if he kept crawling around my face.

I had to name him.

‘Fine. I’ll call you Bob; why don’t you hunt around for some spiders, OK? Goodnight Bob.’

Creepy crawlies on your pillow may be annoying, but a pet sharing your bed is acceptable. All my mind needed was a name, and I soon fell asleep.

For a couple of hours.

‘Here fishy fishy, here fishy fishy.’

It was early morning, and my brother was hunting in my bedroom.

‘Here fishy fishy, some nice bugs for the fishy?’

‘What on earth are you doing?’ I groaned.

‘Quiet. You have a lizard in your room,’ my brother whispered.

‘I know. His name is Bob.’

‘His name is Fishy, and he’s leaving.’

‘Don’t bother. He’s a ninja physics-professor; just leave him alone.’

My brother looked at me incredulously: ‘Are you on crack? It’s 6AM, and I don’t need to be up till 9. He’s leaving.’

‘He woke you up?’

‘I think he bit my nose or something.’

Before I could remark on the coincidence, and forward my witty lizard nose-fetish theory, my brother exploded in a puff of smoke, bounced off two and a half walls, enabled bullet-time, momentarily levitated above the upturned couch and snatched the somersaulting lizard out of thin air.

Bob squeaked in protest.

Ralph opened the window and sent him flying into the garden. All in a morning’s work. He turned his sleepy face to me and said goodnight.

‘Goodnight,’ I replied, ‘And goodbye Bob.’

‘His name was Fishy.’