Today I discovered ants in my pants.

Fortunately, I wasn't wearing them. They were part of a neat pile of sundry items of freshly washed and dried underwear, which had been placed upon a small table in readiness for the attentions of a smoothing iron*.

Arguments are currently raging regarding the identity of the miscreant who neglected to remove the empty crisps packet from said table.

'Empty' it may have been, to the mind of a fully grown human, but to the mind of an ant, out scouting for sources of food, it was still full of nutritious goodness, a fact which hindsight, in its usual irritating manner, suggests was obvious.

First Forager (the title I imagined bestowed upon the discoverer) had dutifully brought the path to this miniature El Dorado to the attention of its (I've always had trouble sexing ants) fellow marauders, a path which happened to traverse the aforementioned neatly folded pants.

The empty packet has been removed and the ants are no more (although you can be sure I will double-check to make sure before donning any underwear which I suspect might have been a constituent part of 'the pile'). I wonder should I mourn their passing or congratulate myself for having given the ants the opportunity to consider the deleterious effects of junk food?


* How to Iron Underwear