Week 182: Ghost moth

Saturday evening, we head to Greyskull to watch Constance Sojourner and eat chips. The drizzle shifts into a downpour, brief in a bruised sky. R’s been fidgeting for the toilet for a while and finally declares she needs a wee. We dash to the loos and she does her thing. On the way out she tells me I have something fuzzy on my shoe. I do a turn, looking for loo roll (or something worse) caught on the sole. Nothing. I’m impatient, and snap at her to say clearly what she means. She tells me there’s something fuzzy on the back of my shoe. So I slow down and see – blending with the white swoosh – a pure-white moth hunkered into the weave. I look it up, later: a male Ghost Moth. Furry, harmless, resolute. We dash back to our bench, weaving between the rain and the run-off from the gantry above. I take my shoe off when we get back. The moth will not budge. A trickle of rain starts splashing into my lap, so I shrink into the corner and try to coax the moth onto something dry. It scrambles…