Little Sisters and the Tuneless Whistle

Since I moved the rocks under the yucca we have had a stream of tiny brown ant across the entrance, behind the bookcases and into the kitchen everywhere. I even had to wash the kettle: so, holding a pocket handkerchief before my streaming eyes, I poisoned them.

Big gap between principle and practice since I revere the beguinage, and identify with spiders and ants, and bees: my sisters. In their place.

I have been industrious this week, painting my bedroom, finishing a load of sewing, power-washing the exterior, so I can go to bed properly tired. I am aware that I whistle constantly under my breath in a maddening way, quite beyond my control. It is in my genes but I can't remember if dad did it, I just know that Tim does, and so does Felix so it has seeped into the next generation. What contagion have I handed down.