Nobody talks about fleas, even though every pet owner has had the pleasure of these pesky squatters invading their carpet or wooden floor. Fleas have become the dirty F-word because they are ALMOST impossible to get rid of.
Fleas can turn any sensible woman into a jumpy, flea-obsessed wreck. And this is why…
Firstly, the spray you use doesn’t kill the eggs, so one little blighter of an egg can transform into a whole flea population within months. And fleas multiply quicker than nymphomaniac rabbits. This leads to a lot of hair pulling and cursing because you’ve found another bite on your ankle which makes you question every itch all over your body. You become a crazed ape because you can see (well, inside your own head) hundreds of fleas jumping all over you and inside your bed.
And so, for months, my husband and I would regularly talk about whether or not our tiny residents were going to send me over the edge and into Broadmoor. ‘You’re obsessed!’ my husband would declare, shaking his head in the way that husbands do when they know that this is going to be a boomerang conversation which will always return when they least desire it (in my husband’s case, it’s when ‘Match of the Day’ is on).
A good friend of mine assured me that every pet owner has, or has had, fleas and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. However, this is not my mother’s opinion.
My mother refuses to sit down on my sofa. ‘I don’t know what’s in there!’ she announced, one day, ‘I mean, are you sure that sofa is flea free?’ I have only one conclusion: she believes fleas are tiny Rottweilers hiding in our sofa, waiting to nip her buttocks.
Thankfully, I can talk about my little lodgers with a few friends. I won’t name and shame these friends; I’d be murdered. We all agree that if we did have an infestation- can I stress that some fleas is not an infestation- then the last people we would call would be ‘Rentokil’. What would the neighbours say? The van with ‘RENTOKIL’ on its side, in blood red writing, parked on your drive would be mortifying. It would be farting-whilst-saying-your-wedding-vows mortifying.
When we were taking steps to get rid of our clingy clientele, my friends were full of advice. Use flea bombs they said. Only, the chemical explosions erupting from these flea bombs made me gulp: this had become a massive war strategy similar to the likes of ‘Operation Desert Storm’ in Iraq, in the early nineties.
However, the good news is that I can talk about fleas openly, now, because we no longer have them. It was Mumsnet that saved me. I spent hours rooting around the net and Mumsnet gave me some sound advice and that advice was…hoover them up. So, once a week, I hold our hoover nozzle like an army gun and I slowly cover the whole floor with the nozzle so that every flea is sucked up to meet certain Dyson death.
And so I’ve written this post for all those out there who can’t escape the dreaded fleas. Everyone can experience my relief when I say, in the words of Fletcher from ‘Porridge’, ‘don’t let the bastards grind you down!’
They are about to get Dysoned!
Thanks for reading my post. 🙂