The ants are watching you. They know your game. They’ve seen you eyeing the kettle speculatively. Their spies have told them how you’re secretly favouring the woodlice while loudly claiming to have no alliances or bias in public; passing them supplies of rotting wood and funding their training camps. Already, you’re being denounced as a traitor, an infidel and a caterpillar-lover. In the ant hills, along the crack in the garden wall and across the patio, the ants are seething with resentment over your shameless betrayal of them.

Well buddy, one day you’re going to let your guard down and then … the ants will strike! Strike out against your oppression! Hard! And your picnic will be ruined.

For the last time, don’t piss the ants off.