They mean no harm, but they are starting to bug me. I've dubbed them micro-ants since their primary distinguishing attribute is their small size. They live in the kitchen somewhere; everywhere in fact there is a fallen crumb, uncovered food or an open garbage bag.
Blind and using a complex communication mechanism seemingly based on waggling their antennae, they scour the work tops and mobilise the cavalry for significant booty. Scouts are seen everywhere, walking under the keys of my keyboard, around the sink, along the window sills.
If scientists are to be believed, Darwinism can evolve very quickly to produce environmental adaptation. In which case, my ants are bucking the trend somewhat: they like the kettle. You and I can see the downside of this attraction pretty quickly. I end up cooking a few every time I make a hot drink. The good news is that boiled ants float, so converting a con leggy back into a con latte merely involves a pre-flight check and asbestos finger tips. It makes you wonder what Starbucks is hiding under the frothy tops of their drinks.
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