There were long dark tubes on the floor I’d just swept. I toed one curiously with my work boot as the nice woman at British Airways processed my credit card. It flinched.
“Worms! Oh Jesus Christ!”
” I’m sorry?” said the nice woman at British Airways.
Worms on the kitchen floor. _Lumbricus terrestris_, last seen this closely when I dissected one in Fifth Year biology. I’ve always been fond of earthworms, with their groovy mating habits and fine work ethic. I just didn’t understand why they were now crawling out of the fridge and across the floor. While she tapped away I opened the fridge, so ancient that a springclip holds it shut. A mystery tub had lost its top. Earth and worms spilled out. The worms were jolted out of hibernation and were now making confused bids for freedom: through the vegetables, beneath the fridge, under my boots.
“So that’s D for Delta, F for Freddy…” said Ms. Airways. I kicked open the back door. Tim was oiling his chainsaw on the porch, as usual. I stabbed my finger at the worms, and pantomimed outrage. They seemed to be panicking sluggishly now that I had injured one of their number.
“Oops,” said Tim, “Bait.”
“Can you repeat the confirmation number please?” said Ms. Airways.
_This_ is why I hate the phone.