On a week when the temperature never got above 20 degrees, and a month where 25 was unseen, I am suffering a three-pronged bug attack. The aphids have returned, undaunted by the soap wash, the chili-and-oil spray, or the manual squishings, to their beloved pair of potted plants. (Sorry, Serpentine, suggestions failed.) The parsley stems are plated with soft blue-gray beetles. A singular but steady trickle of wasps likes to enter this room, yet I can see no wasp nest on that side of the house; I make allowances for being short and unable to see the top side of the jutting bit of this story.

I flaunted my SAT score enough the last time the topic arose.