Flying into a rage


Can flies honestly be as thick as they make out? The excitement of the warm weather’s arrival has been mitigated if not crapped on by the return of the bluebottles. Actually, I don’t know if they are bluebottles. Some of them seem to be a bit rust coloured, some are a bit flecky, and some are just, I dunno, black. But all of them can buzz loudly enough to be heard through a closed door.

I don’t know why we should be so plagued with the buggers. The theory I cling to is that the house is on a hill and thus fairly breezy of situation, so the flies come in for a bit of a rest. But like a cat, the minute they’re in, the minute they want to go out again. I don’t want to to spray them with stuff, partly because I’m sure it can’t improve the air quality or the contents of the fruit bowl, and partly because it turns windowsills into insect Valhalla. I don’t want to swat them because they burst and stuff comes out and then I have to be sick. But on the other hand, can I be arsed to run around the house steering the terminally cretinous noizyboyz towards the OPEN window? Suddenly I’m shouting at them. It’s OPEN. You can feel the breeze. Jesus, even I can feel the breeze. Buzz, crash, buzz, crash, their revolting exoskeleton makes them morons in crash helmets.

I thought they were supposed to have five squillion Bohemian Rhapsody eyes. Then why are they so BLIND? Christ. And it’s only April. I need to get out and meet people.


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