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As a nipper, I used to hate ants. The garden was host to 20-30 nests of big red ants. A bite from one of these buggers produced a painful lump of upto 1/2" diameter, sometimes more, in rose-purple. Just one climbing up a bare leg left a Technicolor join-the-dots. At the tender age of six, on about the second evening after having moved into the new house, I sat on the garden path watching the sunset. Lost in thought, I slowly noticed a curious itching starting in my shorts and spreading under my tee-shirt. The term "ants in the pants" could have hardly been better described. From under the steps poured hundreds of these red ants, swarming and crawling over me. Children being excused lapses in decorum, my reaction was to strip off and investigate the seething mass exploring my body and it's orifices. Standing there in nothing but sandals, I picked each ant off and carefully put it down on the path. Sweet, considerate little boy, me. Next day and I was covered in a mass of red-purple blotches and lumps. I coul

For the next few years, I was at war with the ants. For weapons, I had an end of a tree branch which a hammer head shape to it, a small penknife and a glass lens. I watched my enemy - I learnt their ways. Ants sortie from the nest in pairs, there will be one pair on duty at all times and they change guard about once every three-five minutes, other pairs will be gathering food further away. The nests under the concrete garden path were the ones subjected to my most prolonged assaults. One of the duty guards would be crushed under a carefully placed finger (or rounded pebble held between the finger tips) near the main nest entry. The surviving ant would return and investigate the squeezed mess, then disappear into the nest hole. Two more ants would run out of the hole, almost immediately, these were killed at once by finger or pebble. Next another pair would emerge, the first would investigate the dead bodies, the second would move out further and scout round. Both would then disappear back into the nest, occa

The glass lens was my secret sunny day weapon. The scout ant under attack would be surrounded in a bright light and would pause, twiddling it's head antenna about. The lens was then bought down until the ant spasmed in a bright dot of light, then curled up and smouldered with a acrid whiff of smoke. On rare occasions, when I had already focused a point of sunlight with the lens, I would sweep it across the ants, and on hot days they would pop and spring into the air. The only downside to this attack method was the bluish dot which hovered in the vision for the next quarter hour. The penknife was a more selective weapon. If the victims were lucky, death was quick with the blade severing the head, and a bonus of the occasional body walking around for several minutes. The unlucky ones caught the blade between the second and third segments (the thorax and whatever entomologists call an insect's arse end). If the ant could still move, it could escape - the legless ones writhing helplessly on the concrete were pro

When I spotted these executions in progress, I came upon them like an avenging angel, blazing penknife of revenge in hand to smite upon those who would murder their fellow ant. I would first squeeze the 'executioner' at the neck with the tip of the penknife crushing the thorax into the ground slowly. This broke the jaw grip, if not I moved the tip carefully onto the disembodied head and gently crushed it. Next the ants holding the legs were sliced through one by one and my freed 'prisoner' ran off into the scrub, sometimes with the odd head still attached to one leg. Sometimes I was Robin Hood slaughtering the evil Sheriff's men to save the unfortunate peasant, sometimes I was Luke Skywalker sabreing my way through the Emperor's Imperial Guard to rescue a rebel, what a lovely imagination I had!! Finally, one summer, the red ants disappeared from the garden. Huge heaps of them started appearing on paths the length of the garden, and further investigation observed the bodies being carried out by the smaller bl

As a victorious commander allows a defeated enemy to bury its dead, so I let the ants clear out the victims of the Great Red Ant Plague to their death heaps. It was strangely moving in a way. There are no red ants in that garden now, the Plague must have killed their queen ants and destroyed their organization.

The harmless little black ants took over the deserted barrows they left. But when the moon is high, and sunken in a halo of circling cloud, an ant scurrying back to the nest will pause and then turn grey with fright as a ghostly ant form staggers into its path ... headless ... then disappears into the darkness as if it never was...


His Grace, Duke Henry Plantagenet

credit given to original author if known

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