Blue Sky Living

How to kill a scorpion

You associate scorpions and other nasty insects with the summer in Provence. However in reality the worst time of year is now. This is when the surviving insects, the kings of their particular food chain, start crawling out from beneath the rocks in a desperate attempt to escape the encroaching cold of winter.

Last night as I shut the door I came face to face with the most enormous scorpion I have ever seen. It was at least the length of my index finger and had crawled up the wall to eyeball level. It waved its tail in a friendly hello and I ran to the kitchen searching for the appropriate implement to kill it with. Usually with insects I am content to sweep them away with a brush, but scorpions are different - you never know when these menacing silent creatures are going to slide beneath your bedclothes, and with a young child in the house, extermination is the policy.

Since living in Provence I have practiced many different methods of killing scorpions. I started with a hammer which was particularly effective at cracking their tough metallic hides but also good at breaking tiles. I moved onto a soup ladle. Less destructive to the floor than a hammer but also less effective - at least two good whacks are required, and even then the scorpion often manages to scuttle off nursing a sore head. Barbecue tongs are good at slow crushing but there is always the danger that the scorpion will run up the metal and onto your arm. 

In conclusion by far and away the most effective, is my current method - the point of a knife. Inserted into the centre of the body the scorpion is pinned in place. There’s no danger of it escaping or falling to the floor onto my feet. There’s about 2 seconds of movement and then the deed is done.

Paris

So there we were in Paris. Tanya was off shopping and I was wondering what to do with Elodie. Since two is a bit young for museums and bars I took her to the grassy area outside the Louvre. Lying back on the bank I admired the view - an unbroken couple of kilometres, passed Place de La Concorde all the way up to the Arc de Triomphe. 

‘What a pleasant and majestic place Paris is,’ I thought, as Elodie disappeared from sight behind a line of thick bushes. 

Luckily I hurried after her.

Behind the bush a youngish gentleman was urinating, or so I thought. I guided Elodie away and glanced back a minute or so later. The man was still in the process of emptying what must be an enormous bladder.  

Twenty minutes later another father interrogated me: “Did you see the flasher?”

I nodded knowingly as the realisation dawned that nobody could pee for that long.

“Reckon he deserves it,” the father continued, pointing toward the Louvre, from where soldiers were pouring from army trucks. They formed a line and began marching forward through the rows of bushes, sweeping their machines guns in front of them as if they were deep in enemy territory. 

“What will they do if they catch him,” I asked.

“Shoot him in the dick,” replied the father with a straight face. 

The French are not known for their sense of humour, so I can only assume he was serious. Taking Elodie by the hand we left before the bloodbath could begin.