I always thought there was something swarming under that luxuriant orange rug: something cavorting on the cerebral swings and roundabouts and nibbling on the neurotransmitters.
The signs are quite clear if you know what to look for: inconsistency, an inability to distinguish fact from fiction, an unrealistic attachment to being right…
I thought at first it was maggots. They can be very pervasive. And they eat a lot. Imagine the damage they could do in all innocence, chomping away at the little grey cells to ensure the survival of the species. Their species, not ours.
I was wrong. But I was right as well. There are no maggots, as far as I know, and certainly not swarms of them. There are trits. Thousands of trits, possibly millions, laughing and singing and flitting and lurking, playing hide-and-seek and peeka-boo, not wreaking havoc but thoroughly enjoying the havoc already well and truly wrought by other unidentified means.
You may not be familiar with trits. They are not an everyday species, inhabiting – as they do – that fine line between sanity and insanity that isn’t a border we all visit (although they do sometimes appear as a temporary post-operative treat).
I was first introduced to them by my husband’s former father-in-law, who was on good terms with us and with trits. Happily for us all, they caused neither him nor us any great problem. They were simply there, a sign that that he had bought his ticket to la-la land but not yet boarded, and as he wasn’t a gentleman of great power and influence, he and his trits posed no threat to anyone as they waited for the train.
I wish I could be as sanguine about the trits under the orange rug.