Forget butterflies with their ‘look at me, I said, LOOK AT ME’ wings,
moths are where it’s at.
Its ten o’clock Saturday night when normal people are either
at home shouting at the telly, or outside a pub falling over. Instead, I’m in a
small tree-lined clearing, watching a man I’ve never met paint a cocktail of
treacle, ale and rum onto the bark of a silver birch.
A short while later, illuminated only by the fading glow of
my Pound Shop torch, I find myself skimming tall grasses with a butterfly net.
My conspirators, a hotchpotch of middle-aged strangers, are lost in their own
identical rituals.