"Eeeek, eeek, yuk, GET IT OFF ME", I yelled, jumping out of bed and slapping at my shoulders.
We swatted if off and Richard ran for the insect killer spray, somewhere downstairs. "Keep an eye on it!", he said. So I sat, keeping an eye on it. After a few minutes, he appeared and sprayed the thing which quickly ducked out of range under the bed. We caught sight of it again behind the curtains whereupon I grabbed the nearest magazine, rolled it up and smote the creature a terrible blow, rendering it dead instantly. The smoting was swift and terrible and I'm rather proud of it.
Woody Allen would be pleased too. I always think of him when I have to kill an insect. The magazine closest at hand was the New Yorker and the last thing the roach saw was the Dec. 1st cover. Most of the ways a roach meets it's maker are not so pretty. Our roach was dispatched in Bali, in a room with a view and likely caught a few cleverly written words right at the end.