Today I tricked a house fly into leaving my bedroom. Heh heh. Stupid fly.
I had prepared a mini feast of tea (good ol’ Assam) and popcorn, and naturally as I was sat down, this hideous-looking greenish-blue fly soared in out of nowhere. It had little interest in being near my food, which was worrisome, because it might mean it was one of those bugs that was out to get me. Maybe it was seeking revenge from all the other flies I’ve contracted out assassins for (I’ve never had the courage to kill a fly).
All I had in my arsenal against this potentially Coleridge-eque nuisance were some rather menacing arm-swishees and a few half-hearted verbal threats. Normally my waifish, psycho-gorilla kung-fu arm dance can appear pretty terrifying to a teeny tiny insect, but this particular house fly wasn’t just fast, noisy and ugly. It was obese. Yes, an overweight house fly (insert fat Americans joke here).
I armed myself with various objects ( a plate, a pillow, my entire duvet) in several feeble attempts to evacuate it from my presence. My food was declining rapidly in temperature – time was of the essence. Employing logical thinking, I decided to blast the enormous table fan that was pointing at my already cooling food, thinking that the air might at least keep the fly away from my lukewarm Assam . I told myself over and over again that if any of the popcorn missiles that were being ejected from the bowl every which way were to hit the enemy, then they would be worthy but heroic, fallen sacrifices.
But none of this had any effect and the little bastard kept dive-bombing from one end of the room to another.
Obviously, this was war. Suddenly it was 1775 – he was Israel Putnam and I was the 5th Viscount Sir William Howe. Or he was Queen Victoria (in house-fly drag) and I was Lakshmibai, Rani of Jhansi.
Finally I noticed that it was attracted to the light from the small plastic chandelier, and kept resting on one of the lighter-coloured pieces of plastic that only served to illuminate its sheer grotesque colouring and fat frame like some sort of bulbous, delusional supermodel-fly. Great, an self-indulgent, loud-mouthed, overweight fly that thinks it’s a moth. It’s like being in Hollywood all over again.
I turned off the bedroom light ,which immediately caused it to buzz in disgust; I then ran around the rest of the apartment turning on and off in succession the rest of the lights like some 4 year-old pied piper left alone in the house for a few hours., to lead the annoying little twat towards the front hall.
Finally, I was free. I had outsmarted a house fly. A really fat, really loud house fly.
Or so I thought.
My teaholism had got the better of me and I went to make another cup. I left the bedroom door open a tiny crack (heh) and the little shit had flown back in again.
There I regressed, doing my Wavy Arm Dance and grabbed my tallest pair of shoes for some reason (despite the fact that the sole is used for squishing, not the length of the damn thing). That and the Gorilla Kung Fu made no difference. All I was doing was probably convincing my landlady that I was a lunatic (not that she’d need much after being on the wrong side of Marmite).
I didn’t see it for a while. It was getting late, and my grilled portabello mushrooms in my cafe video game were in danger of spoiling if I didn’t serve them. The little flying bastard might have succeeded in landing on my trail mix and icing my tea, but I wasn’t about to let this little shit sabotage my virtual food, too. However, since I really couldn’t be arsed to check, I subscribed to my dad’s way of thinking (“the cranefly has not been sighted in a closed room with no open windows – therefore it must have vanished) and sat down.
Something still didn’t seem right. Every sequin on my skirt that brushed against my arm, every tendril of hair that tickled my bare shoulder – not only was I having flashbacks to years of childhood sleeping on the top bunk (and cracks in the ceiling full of spiders), but I couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was still there.
Suddenly, I look down to my left arm and feel a little tickle. The little fucker was ON MY ARM! That fat little perv was brazenly just sat there, casually hanging out on MY skin, like it was trying to move in for a cuddle or something.
That was it.
I grabbed several wads of toilet roll (thick enough to squish without mess, but thin enough to control its shape) and ran back into the bedroom. It was still there, sitting on my pillow, like some gross drunken heap, staring at me. I really didn’t want to do it, but I surrounded it with the loo roll and in one quick sweep, squished it and ran to the bathroom, holding the mangled bundle at arm’s length.
Just to make sure it was definitely dead, I opened out the folded part. But nothing was there. Carefully, I unravelled the whole thing. Still nothing! And not only nothing, but something (else) – raggedy-looking holes in the tissue, like the intrepid little bastard had clawed his way out
(yes they were from my fingernails).
Back in the bedroom, I saw it lying in the same place on the bed, only it was on its back. I prodded it with the edge of a new Killing Tissue Ball, only to realise that the cheeky bastard was just playing dead; its legs were still thrusting somewhat. I finally put the damn thing out of its misery and flushed it down the toilet – a noble send-off. Probably. I didn’t dare unfurl again.
I now have phantom tickles on my arm, and the guilt of killing a rather annoying, albeit living, thing has left a bad taste in my mouth. But that could just be the cold tea. The little bastard.
The saddest thing is that until I get a job this will probably be the most notable thing I did all week.
Also: today I had the most violent hiccups ever. Why is everything so much more extreme in America?