I didn’t know whether to laugh or to regurgitate my supper.
Sometime during the night last night- I have no idea when, except that it was dark – I got up to answer the call of the wild.
Upon engaging the (red) night-vision lights (yep, the Cardinal has them fitted) I noticed that a house-fly (boat-fly?) was catching up on some house-fly zeds on a very convenient surface. Since the night had grown cool this would be a sluggish and unwieldy house-fly at best. It would doubtless have the reaction-times of a post-prandial Bishop.
This fly had spent the evening being even more annoying to me than a tiny Jeremy Corbyn with added proboscis, or some Stazi squad of right-on feminazis screeching ‘woke woke woke’ while wearing campaign t-shirts manufactured for twoppence ha’penny in some genuinely Hellish sub-continental sweatshop… Bzzzzzz – land – walkabout – ear-hole – feet – back to the ear-lobe – bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz – fly-past – land – ooh, what are you eating? – may I have some? – stomp stomp stomp – wheeeeee &etc.
Flies can no more see in the red than can your average Chancellor of the Exchequer – this fly was mine.
I grabbed my trusty creature-catching tumbler and my sheet of stiff-but-thin card and scooped him up.
What I had forgotten in my drowsiness, or what I perhaps in my drowsiness gave not one care about, was that on my previous shambolic shuffle to the Necessary-Offices I had scooped up a rather belligerent, relatively small but perfectly-formed tiger-striped spider.
Ye (Greek and Roman) gods, you’ve never seen slaughter like it. Especially not in a glass more properly intended to hold whisky.
The spider had that fly before you could say ‘yum, yum, pig’s bum where’s me pudding?’
One very dead fly and one wholly unintentionally overly well-fed and happy spider.
Damned spider is going to assume that it holds some sort of “beloved pet” status now, isn’t it?
I suppose that I shall have to name the ruddy thing, just until he loses enough weight for me to prise him out of the catching-tumbler (which, incidentally, is one of those “free” ones that petrol stations used to give motorists in the nineteen-seventies whenever we filled our Sunbeam 1250TC tanks with ten gallons of four-star).
I award him the Borg designation ‘Four-thousand six-hundred and twenty-eight’ (so far this year).
In more familiar moments I shall probably refer to him as ‘Desmond’.
Or perhaps ‘He-Who-Is-Instant-Death-To-House-Flies’.
A legend in his own glass prison.
Q. Does this make me an accomplice to murder, again?
Q. Will it be wise, do you think, for me to rely in court upon ‘Your Honour, I wasn’t even awake at the time of the crime’?
Q. If I now throw Desmond onto some lonely stretch of towpath will he feel betrayed? Will he find his way back to the “groovy, magical digs where an enormous human hand feeds you fresh, tender morsels in the dead of night”?
Oh bugger – I just had to say the word ‘dead’, didn’t I?
Brings a whole new meaning to the word ‘Flyicide’.
Sniffles – vomits – laughs slightly hysterically.
So what’s new already?