If you were in any doubt that I have been neglecting my garden over the last 9 weeks, you’d only need to take one look at it to get the kind of unambiguous evidence that would make Schrödinger himself say “Oh, well that answers that then.”
Upon closer inspection, you’d notice that the ants are taking over the lawn, and I just don’t have the time to do anything about it. Little mounds of earth here and there collapse under a weighty toecap, spraying little scampery chappies hither, thither and ivirywhither.
“Enjoy it, you little scallywags,” I condescend, “because in six weeks you’re going to have a new nemesis to deal with, and he almost certainly won’t be as busy as I am.”
The ants are secretly afraid, but they attempt to cover it up with displays of anty bravado. They waggle their tongues and shake loosely clenched fists at me. Some don’t know when to stop, and just go *too far*. I call the police, and the ants get new ASBOs. Then a huge flying hippo lands on the car, and we all eat jelly.
All of this really happened.
