A cockroach climbed onto my foot last night. I felt the brush of tiny legs and looked down to see a large brown object sitting squarely on my bare foot. I flicked it off in a frenzy of high-pitched squeals. Jeremy ran in and watched me as I jumped frenetically around our ting New York kitchen. I squealed the word ‘cockroach’ and pointed to the floor. He helpfully uncovered a ball of dust from under our cabinets. Was this what I was referring too?

I looked at the offending piece of dirt and then looked around suspiciously. Jeremy cracked a smile. He swaggered back to his desk and told me not to worry. I was just a crazy lady in the kitchen. There were no cockroaches. I lived in a clean sanctuary. I carried on cooking.

I turned around to grab the handle of the fridge and caught a flash of movement in my peripheral vision. I flicked my head and saw the cockroach running towards my foot at record-breaking speed. I would like to say that I have lived in the countryside for most of my life and I am not generally a total wimp. However, I lost all control of my sanity and leapt over the roach and towards our window shelf. It was at this point, from my precarious ledge, that I let forth a stream of profanities. The cockroach froze in its spot as I cursed it repeatedly. Jeremy ran back into the room. I carried on swearing and pointing and he heroically took a great stride forward and stomped on the intruder. It crunched reassuringly and a swipe of kitchen towel removed its carcass to the rubbish bin.

At this point I would like to tell you all that I climbed down from my gargoyle like pose and resumed my status as a domestic goddess. Sadly, this is not the case. Instead Jeremy came and lifted me up and carried me from one side of our railroad apartment to the other. I then sat on our bed in silence reflecting on 1) what hazardous concoction I could buy to kill any roachie relatives and 2) the fact that I had not stuttered once during my foul-mouthed monologue.

Truth be told, having stuttered for most of my life I cannot remember ever stuttering on a swear word. Luckily I have steered clear of turning every sentence I speak into a blasphemous monologue but I do tend to slip in the occasional ‘shit’ or ‘bugger’ when I am in the middle of a never-ending word. Knowing that I will say something fluently is a reassuring break from the fray, it reminds me that I am not lost in the stutter. Although my swearing generally sits squarely in the PG-13 variety it is by no means ideal. I have received a couple disapproving stares from elderly grannies and young mums.

I know that I am not alone in this experience. It is true for some other stutterers I know and, if The King’s Speech is to be believed, King George VI puts me amongst some very esteemed company. And yet I wonder why swearing overrides the stutter. Is it the spontaneity of the situation? It is a self-fulfilling prophecy? I ‘know’ that I won’t stutter and my body believes my mind. Is it because I am so caught up in my own personal emotion that I momentarily don’t care about what my listener thinks of me? I have lots of questions and very few answers.

I do, however, know that I would rather stutter happily every day than be shocked into momentary fluency by another sprinting roach. I am off to buy some traps to see if my unexpected visitor has any more friends.