We have ants, they’ve invaded our kitchen via the hallway.
Amber is not entirely happy with this development.
The ants were first spotted at breakfast this morning – “Oh, look, there’s an ant. And another. Tsk. And another one. And…blimey…”
I went round the kitchen with a magazine swatting the buggers, followed the trail through the hall to the front door. It was a massacre.
Millie joined in with gusto once she had her shoes on, but Amber stayed on her chair eating her cereal. Didn’t think twice about this at the time.
Ten minutes later, I’m having a shave.
Millie shouts that there are more ants and Amber races upstairs screaming – literally screaming – that she doesn’t like ants.
I give her my skeptical look (I can’t describe it here, suffice to say, it looks very skeptical) but she won’t calm down, even after being told that ants are –
- lacking teeth
- not interested in her
- easily killed
- unable to muster sufficient numbers to present a threat.
None of this logic makes any difference to Amber; nor does Millie laughing at her.
Ants might, I carefully explain, tickle her a bit if one happened to climb onto her leg, but that really is as bad as it gets (I decide not to mention fire ants or army ants, let alone Phase IV or The Ants Of Lakewood Manor, both of which I saw on TV as a child).
Millie checks the ant situation downstairs.
We are nowhere near Ants Of Lakewood Manor levels, let alone Phase IV, but Amber still takes a good couple of minutes to calm down.
She is scared of ants.
The name for ant-phobia, by the way, is Myrmecophobia.