Greetings, Googlers,

What’s for lunch?, inquired Amy the Ant. (Or Aunt Amy, if you prefer…)

I was going to write my almost every Sunday morning post – you know, about something really serious and socially important – but am still staining my floors, which is taking a very long time.  I’m being kept rather good company by a few buggy house friends who have come to visit.  Rather they’ve come to live. Or, I should say, they’ve come to be stuck in the floor permanently. As in inlaid. Wood inlays to be exact. Although they are very much alive to me and I can fell their little spirits. This mahogany one, Amy the Ant, is making her way into the Living Room wondering what crumbs might have been dropped on the floor for lunch. I have not told her that she will make it no further than the peeking around the corner from the Hallway, so don’t you dare say a word.

For inlaid wood creatures don’t move, do they? Or do they?

At night, possibly, when I’m not there.

Or when I’ve turned my back for an instant.

Or when something has scared them.  Like a big foot hovering overhead.

But then, wood inlaid creatures don’t feel anything either, do they?

Or do they?

Perhaps they have a hidden stash of ant bandaids (AntAids) somewhere, under the molding perhaps, for times of trouble.

Or perhaps they grouse to their friends about their cruel houselady who would have set them into the floor in the first place to be walked all over willy nilly.

But then again, perhaps they rather like being immortal.  After all, Aunt Amy will be here long after I’m gone.  And then she can go where she pleases and eat whatever she wants.

I’m eating blueberries and Amy is staring at me.  Ants don’t eat blueberries.

Cheerio everyone,

Giselle