I slayed a flying ant to the shock of my vegetarian sista this afternoon and have just endured a 32 minute buzz off with a wasp: yes, I’m enduring the dark-side of every Londoner’s fantasy – outside space. I am regretting both plants and it’s only 29 June. Bring on winter. In local news our dry cleaner packed up after the neighbours (but which ones?), tunnelled into their shop from the communal corridor, and stole all their cash. I hadn’t immediately spotted the gargantuan hole in their wall as I collected our shirts, or the large day-glo clad officer taking note of its dimensions, as I was busy begrudging their wasp-free zone. Two weeks later and they’re gone. The new tenants are cut-throat barbers. They have painted knives on everything from their shop front to their shirt collars. We will see if they fare better. In another daylight robbery on the same street I was charged £2.20 for one slice of burnt toast for my baby. Sure I understand that here in Islington, where even the recycling bins overflow with goodwill until pages of the Guardian float around the park, well-meaning mothers who are polite when you are rude are ten-a-penny. Babies are so ubiquitous my boy is of less interest than a pug, and floor space is so expensive you can’t just buy a coffee you must rent a stool, if you can find one at all. But this was off-peak. And I can burn my own toast. He might as well have told me to go f*** myself… an excellent (now ex-) customer. I plan to recommend this café to the knife-wielding barbers. If anyone can improve service they can. Meanwhile I must remember that both my local haunts are gone when I am forgetting everything else in my wasp-induced delirium tomorrow.