For the record, I hate lizards. Not small lizards. Just big lizards. Big, sharp-nailed iguana lizards who bounce their heads when they’re coming onto their pointy lizard girlfriends. They pop up in odd places - on patios near breakfast, on tree branches near lunch, in my personal space - with bits of their tail missing, looking poised for a sprint to the death and carrying enough extra skin that they could easily expand to twice or three times their current size and bag a couple of Tahitian wives and buy their own island and…oh no wait: that’s Marlon Brando. I take it back about the wives. But I still hate lizards.