I love insects. Dragonflies for example. Beautiful creatures. Fascinating even, some kind of chinoiserie helicopters in turbulence, caused by tropical summer heat, with a pilot who has had one too many whisky sours, until they’re suddenly disappearing in your garden’s Bermuda triangle while you’re having tea. Moths, however, I disapprove of, I despise them from the bottom of my heart. I’ve killed generations of moths over the years, or at least, I’ve made their lives miserable with moth paper, vast amounts of moth paper, placed everywhere, in my bedroom’s wardrobe, in the other wardrobe in the hall, in every fucking drawer, between pullovers, next to pullovers, on top of pullovers, layers everywhere, hysterical layers of moth paper, but these beasts are smarter than I thought. They discovered that one loophole in my meticulous precautions: my Hermès pillows. The other day, when I just wanted to rest my head after over-ordering at Mr Porter’s, nothing of importance actually, just underwear and socks, I discovered the holes they’ve left behind. Not even tiny ones, no, very gourmand ones. They had quite an appetite. I am still under shock. Who would think of moths attacking Avalon?