Saturday, 26 September 2009

Fly me to the ...

better not quote more for fear of litigation.

Just sitting here reading about Nabokov's last and unfinished novel when I turned my head to speak to Polly and noticed what I thought was a spider on Polly's shoulder. Closer inspection proved it to be a fly - a pale fly, an anaemic looking thing. Polly said she had seen a couple more today (she'd kept that quiet) and that they might be a recent hatching from a dead rodent in our loft space - heard, poisoned but not seen. As she said this another pale drifter emerged from a crack in the ceiling. The glory hole is too high to reach without a ladder I am happy to say as I did not want to stick my head up into unknown territory and perhaps be attacked by flies desperate to escape.

I stood on a chair and sprayed some dreadful insecticide along the ceiling crack. We trust this will work.

When we lived in Donegal this happened to us: our boy cat, the late Master Samuel Beckett, must have allowed a mouse to escape, which crawled injured into a crack in our stone floor behind a potato crock. One day we were treated to a horde of dozy flies emerging  as if by magic from a dark corner. Ain't nature wunnerful?

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