THE other morning we were greeted by several uninvited house guests in the living room. They included five ants, three woodlice and a disgruntled wasp, all apparently waiting for breakfast.

My husband also discovered what looked like a spider's nest attached to our bedroom curtains and once again there were tell-tale silvery trails across the kitchen floor, indicating a slugs' all-nighter.

Now, I have nothing against God's creatures. I just wish he was a more responsible owner and didn't let them roam into other people's property. Our house is small enough with three homo sapiens vying for space. We really don't have room for anyone else's pets.

The slugs are the least welcome. We think they've set up camp behind the washing machine, but both my husband and I are too reluctant to investigate further. This is foolish because if we're woken in the middle of the night by suspicious noises or a raging thirst for R White's lemonade, neither of us dares venture downstairs. Have you ever trodden on a slug in your bare feet? It's not an experience you would ever want to repeat. Of course, they could be useful in warding off intruders. Perhaps we should put up a "beware of the slugs" sign.

The woodlice I can tolerate. It's easy enough to scare them into turning themselves into ballbearings and then chuck them out the window. And the odd small spider is okay by me too. During my single years in a second-floor flat there were lonely nights when I used to be grateful for the company. Spiders are good listeners and rarely make any demands on your friendship, although, sadly, I think I once bored one to death. After hearing about the misdemeanours of one of my former boyfriends, it didn't move from its corner of the ceiling for weeks. I then tried flies, but they lack the patience for heart-to-hearts and have that irritating habit of wanting to share your dinner.

My big fear is that larger life forms with their entourage of fleas and mites will take advantage of our hospitality. During my student years I lived in a country cottage inhabited by field mice and still have nightmares about the time I'd left my bedside light switched on and woke to see an enormous, whiskery shadow projected on to the wall. Marcel Mouseau, as he became known, was walking around the edge of the lampshade and only scooted off when I trumpeted like an elephant.

And then there are rats, those nasty, vicious vermin who eat small babies (if James Herbert is to be believed), pop up in your toilet (if TV documentaries are telling the truth) and whose fleas were responsible for the bubonic plague (fact). Of all God's creatures, the rat is the least likely to get to heaven.

I've yet to see one in our neighbourhood but I know from speaking to pest control officers (what a job, eh!) that the rat population in Brighton is fast catching up on the human population. I also know that, sometimes, you cannot tell the two species apart and this is something which neither God nor Darwin can explain.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.