Pardon me, I'm yawning as I write this

ber Moth and I do not have a good relationship.

In fact, I have a poor relationship with the animal kingdom in general.

I am inclined to believe the blame lies with Disney '” the childhood hours spent wailing in mourning for Bambi's mother and Simba's dad seem to have left an indelible mark on my psyche where our furry friends are concerned.

This aversion to anything cuddly and mobile was deepened with the deaths of Sunny and Waffles, who chose Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve respectively to make their exits to the big hamster wheel in the sky.

Even goldfish have had a rough time of it in the Bravo household and now the closest I get to marine friendships involves chips, vinegar and a pineapple fritter to finish.

It was bad enough being made to feel like Cruella De Ville (I even have a fur coat, though I stress it's M and S acrylic circa the 1970s rather than one of Mr and Mrs Mink's beloved offspring) for wincing when my friend's Labradors massacre my tights, now I can't even get some shut-eye without first waging war on ber Moth with a rolled-up Vogue and a hoover.

What ber Moth's intentions are, I'm not sure; possibly to avenge the deaths of all the minibeast pals of his that I've crushed, smushed and drowned over the years by robbing me of so much sleep my internal organs eventually shut down and I expire.

Or maybe he just finds the sight of my shrieking, pyjama-clad form dancing across the room wielding a can of deodorant like a machete at 1am too irresistible an entertainment to pass by.

All I know is that despite being rational, sane and surprisingly gung-ho in all (most) other areas of life, there is something about the flapping of leathery little wings against the inside of my lampshade in the wee small hours that brings out my inner banshee (perhaps it is this kind of relentless spirit for fruitless sporting activity that means ber Moth and I are destined to never find friendship).

It is not the same individual moth, you understand, with whom I am embroiled every night (prepared to live with the guilt and the knowledge that Pete from Big Brother will probably never marry me, I see to it that they all end up ex-moths).

No, they are all descendents of the original M '“ members of the ber Moth dynasty, like the Blackadder of the insect world, who inherit from their forefathers a hairy stomach, wings like a Barbour jacket and a desire to make my life a sleepless, holey-jumpered hell.

Every night.

And so the circus begins.

Me, emitting squeals of a frequency only dogs and Joe Pasquale can hear, drawing on 11 years of ballet training to pirouette deftly across the carpet brandishing the nearest domestic weapon to hand.

If it squirts, good.

If it can be flung to messy result against my opponent as it takes a breather on the wall, better.

Unfortunately, the 11 years spent practising plies in a tutu left little time for perfecting my bowling skills, and I can often hear the voice of my high school P.E. teacher echoing around me as ber Moth avoids my feebly-thrown ankle boot and hides under a cushion.

I duly sit on the cushion, prepared to sacrifice the satin cover to a little dusty moth residue if it means I can go to sleep, but M has other ideas and scarpers.

Thus a little battle I like to term my "Winged Waterloo" begins, me making vain attempts to second-guess M while he third, fourth and fifth-guesses me, dancing in merry circles on the ceiling until I have to resort to the inevitable conclusion, a finale that will involve more pain and anguish than anything my foe and his flapping cronies have ever encountered.

Wake up my father.

The question, of course, is this: what the dickens am I going to do about ber Moth's London-dwelling relatives when I start uni in a fortnight's time?

Actually, this question is not mine at all, but rather my father's weary 1am plea from my doorway seven nights a week as he finishes his (fairly large) role in Operation Moth Removal.

To which I reply with the obvious "befriend the beefy rugby player down the corridor and bake him shortbread to say thank you."