The shame of it

I am ashamed. I am humiliated, I am damned.
It's a bad day for me, mes potes.
My lovely new friend D from Royston sent me a photo of a moth that had entered their conservatory the other afternoon.
Already the clues are piiling up: day flying, end of March.
And I am sent a photo of the moth perched on the end of a forefinger. Another clue: size.
Pluimage-wise, it is spectacular.
And I panic, because I do not immediately recognise it.
Eventually, after trawling through the WHOLE book, I give up and send it to my guru. Who is very kind but cannot believe I didn't know what it was.
And what it was is, after the hawkmoths, just about the best-known moth on the British list, even by those who do not possess Skinner traps. Even YOU, dear reader, know what it is, don't you?
Bugger.
I have no excuses, though, believe me, I have been struggling to find excuses.
It is SO awful, I can't tell you how awful, it is. It is like not recognising your feet when you start to put your socks on.
I think it is time I cancelled my subscription to the human race, not that it will be a great loss: it's the one subscription I pay that is not tax allowable.