The wee bastard's just trying to wind me up.
As if it's not bad enough that, thanks to our new, pointless security procedures, I have to be up at the crack of frigging dawn to get a mid-morning flight to my sister-in-law's wedding, I've just discovered that the moth I kindly haven't killed whilst it spent the last two days fluttering about my flat has eaten the arm off my suit.
Bastard!
I've only worn the damn thing about four times, too.
That's it. No more Mr Nice Guy. Anything flying gets twatted in future and the next mouse-eating spider I find running across the living-room floor will not be caught under a glass and gently evicted to the outdoors. Oh no! It'll be put in my wardrobe to eat any sumbitch moth that decides to have a go at whatever I have to buy to replace my suit.
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