Wednesday 15 April 2015

Moth Night


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.