Every so often a moth gets into the room where I sleep.  When the light is out, when there is no luminescence to obsess upon, the moth will commence to potter around the room.  I suppose it is searching for a nectar or something woolen.

    I, in my turn, will feel my head on the pillow, and think about those winter clothes still waiting to be put away.  Moth balls, I understand were created for good reason.

    When the light is switched on the moth becomes anxious and I chase it with a book.  Sometimes much damage is done.  Those expensive light bulbs, that use less resource and last for seven hundred years, have fallen like flies.

    To add to this expense I have in the darkness stepped on my glasses, stubbed my toe, damaged my shin and there is a coffee stain on the carpet by my table. 

    The lining in this battle ground belongs to its secret nature.  If the wife were to know of these antics, she would smile at me, and then I would catch her laughing at what she would call nothing.  

    But there has been sadness today, because tomorrow I leave for England.

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