Arriving at Pangrati around 8pm, I took out a miniature key to open the antique shop. Two of the table lamps and a Glam ‘70s palm tree with LED lighting are kept on throughout the night, so that passers-by take a look – especially on weekends, when they park for the bars nearby. The shop also does unplanned charitable work. On the Athenian Pavement, elderly men and women hold its window bars to walk downhill. Bars, grandpas, vases and art posters under dim pink LEDs, the text is already as banal as a sunset time-lapse. The trouble is that I couldn’t, without a charming initial description, start talking about cockroaches. It’s hard to write about cockroaches without it sounding like a mumsnet rant. Two giant roaches, among other dead from recent pest control in the apartment block, brought in mind that saintlike but unsung profession. More than bomb diffusers, I admired for the first time the noble work and service of those technicians. We are nowhere near romanticist accounts when referring to roaches, especially when they climb casually on fragile decorative objects. Sprays and strikes on them being impossible, I felt defeated. Without means to fight those hardcore roaches-antidotes to the lightness of summertime, I closed the door behind me. I accepted that some of them simply escaped the pest control. I went to one of the bars and started chit-chatting with two barmen. I asked if they would lend me their spray. In any other case, I’d say I was attracted to one and that this was a tasteless excuse to start conversation, but we’re talking here about a hardcore enemy against delicate porcelain.