Who's the Daddy?


Do daddy longlegs adopt a one-per-room policy?

I leave my bathroom window open most evenings, which is an enthralling fact in and of itself. This time of year, every day without fail, I’ll return to find a daddy longlegs flailing about by the opening, unable to work out how to get through it. 

Crane flies* are useless. They’re a species going through an awkward evolutionary stage that can't end well. By rights, they should be extinct, or at least the recipient of an honorary Darwin Award for Shit Insects.

They’re like gangly teenagers uncomfortable in their own skin and desperate to take up less physical space. They’re like me in a nightclub, though I’m bigger, less aerodynamic and have fewer legs. I’ll also buy a round.

Why is there only ever one? Perhaps they’re like spiders: solitary and desperate for supremacy. Or maybe it’s always the same insect. That’s the problem with daddy longlegs: they’re too small to fit an electronic tag to. It's the same with Mark Owen.

* Another equally inaccurate name. They’re no better at flying than hoisting heavy objects. 

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