One of the many joys of living in the country is the plethora of wildlife around every corner- the fox I saw on the way to work the other morning, the malnourished knackers’ horses that forage in the fields, the pigeons that shit incessantly on my windowsill… the list goes on. But all of these are overshadowed by my enemy, Musca Domestica, also known as the common housefly. For dramatic effect I will refer to them in the singular.
She is everywhere. Everywhere I turn in the house there is a fucking fly. It’s not because the house is dirty (despite the best efforts of some) but because the windows are always left open. The problem stems not from the obvious fact that she is dirty, but because I have an incredibly short fuse when it comes to things invading my personal space uninvited. The final straw came when she entered the kitchen. It’s a tiny room at the best of times but to cut a long story short it’s too small for me, my sanity, a housefly and her mates. You can probably see where this is going; and I know what some of you are thinking- *whiney voice* “the fly is one of God’s creatures too and what right do you have to kill her?”. Happily I don’t care about the opinions of people who say such things, so I don’t really feel obliged to justify my actions. If it was a spider I’d chuck it out the window but flies serve no purpose so I’m happy to give them a one-way ticket to Hades. The fly has compound eyes that look in every direction, amazing reflexes, the ability to fly and a knack for camoflage. In short I consider it a fair fight.
Any man worth his salt can, when necessity dictates, delve into the depths of his subconscious and recall to mind the hunter-gatherer instincts of his forefathers. Considering I’d already put the ‘gatherer’ part to work (taking food out of the press) the hunter part was called into action. There were three of the little bastards doing loops of the kitchen- the main instigator and two smaller ones, possibly beloved children. Whateva. Reaching for my trusty tea towel I began to stalk my quarry. I should probably mention that this was at 6.20am. I quickly identified the runt of the litter, and with an over-the-shoulder motion I ended his naive dreams of landing in my jam by turning his brains into that very substance. One down.
The next fellow was clearly a better breed. He moved erratically, outwardly like a drunken sailor, but evidently he had something going on upstairs as he stayed around where all the cups are kept, tempting me into making a rash move that would end in a shitstorm of broken crockery and spilt tea. I needed to be precise, but with my tired early-morning eyes I knew I had to flush him out. Flicking the curtains, I was careful to keep my eyes locked on him as he made his escape towards the (closed) window. Not so smart now bitch. A quick roll and flick followed by an American History X-esque kerb stomp made an impressive mess on the floor, leaving just… her. The queen bee of flies.
She circled high, doubtless observing the bloodbath below and learning from it. Probably studied Darwin. I made a few futile jump shots but knew I had to consider my options. I went back to buttering toast. She flew above, goading me with her very existence. Finally, desperation at my nonchalance got to her and she made moves towards the sitting room where she knew I would shortly go. Clever girl. I followed in with my toast smothered in delicious Granny jam, watching, always watching. I put the toast on the table and turned to put on the TV… She fell for it. As she dived, I spun, whipping the towel around my head like a ninja before sending her fly-ing (see what I did there?) towards the mirror. I never saw her reach it. Such was the force of the towel that I think I may have actually blown her out of existence. Until tomorrow my sweet.