I watched as the creature - the whatever it was - floated on the soft breeze towards me. It had wings, but it didn't seem to want to use them, gliding through the air instead. As it got closer, my nerves started to act up.

I hate insects.

I hate anything with more than four legs and I'm not that keen on anything with more than two, if I'm honest about things.

I felt cheated as I watched it. The first sunny day in weeks, and I had a chance to enjoy it, sitting in the garden with a book and a glass of wine. Only one. I knew my limits. And now this thing, this alien being, was heading towards me. I would either have to move or let it land on me, let it actually touch me with its furry little legs and fluttery, delicate wings.

I couldn't bear the thought. But by now, of course, it was too late. If I attempted to move now, I would crash straight into it, and I had visions of ending up with it tangled in my hair, being squashed under my panicking fingers as I tried to remove it. It didn't deserve that, and, frankly, neither did I. I would have to let it land on my arm or hand, and perhaps then use my book to flick it away. I doubted it would be harmed; insects are remarkably hardy.

The closer it got, the more detail I could make out on its body and wings. It was lovely. Still disgusting. But lovely. Too big, though, and hairy. That was the worst of it. The hair.

Eventually, it landed. On my finger. My breathing stalled, and I tried to love it, to appreciate it. But I could not. Instead, I waved my hand about it terror and disgust, sending it flying.

It did not come back.