Twenty five - the fly story

I hate flies. I'm not SCARED of them, I just think they're dirty putrid disgusting little blighters. Blowflies even moreso.

The other day, on my arrival home from work, I discovered a large fly buzzing around my house. It wasn't a blowie, but I think it was in training to become one, because it was bigger than your average house fly. My ick factor on this one was about a 7.5.

"Hmmm" I thought to myself, "I must remember to squirt that dirty putrid disgusting little blighter and send him off to fly Heaven".

Of course, as the evening progressed and I became entangled in the world of motherhood, I didn't get around to that task in a timely fashion. The dirty putrid disgusting little blighter did, however, continue to remind me of his presence at times.

Making my Cherub's lunch in the kitchen......bzzz bzzzz bzzzz.

"Hmmm" I thought to myself, "I must remember to squirt that dirty putrid disgusting little blighter and send him off to fly Heaven".

Ironing my shirt (in my designated 'ironing room')....bzzz bzzz bzzzz.

"Hmmm" I thought to myself, "I must remember to squirt that dirty putrid disgusting little blighter and send him off to fly Heaven."

Putting my Cherub to bed, giving him the kiss on the forehead.....bzzz bzzz bzzz.

"Hmmm" I thought to myself, "I must remember to squirt that dirty putrid disgusting little blighter and send him off to fly Heaven."

Several other daily routine kind of things continued to get in my way, I had almost forgotten about the dirty putrid disgusting little blighter, until I was in my bedroom getting ready for bed.....and there he was in my room....bzzz bzzz bzzz.

Now was the time. I had no more distractions, so off I toddled to the laundry cupboard to obtain my faithful weapon - the can of Mortein.

Back into my bedroom, and into position, can of flyspray delicately placed at the right projectory, ready to shoot the target. Which I did.

The ick factor increased a point or so straight after I sprayed. You know that horrible sound the dirty putrid disgusting little blighters make as they are dying? Bz...bz...bzzz.

Except this dirty putrid disgusting little blighter put up one hell of a fight, and flew around my room, banging into the mirrored wardrobe doors. Bzz...thump...bzz...thump. (As an aside, there's only one thing that I find more icky than a dying fly banging against a window/mirror or any other surface, and that's when birds fly into windows with a thump, although it IS kind of funny when they knock themselves out and get up again a few seconds later)

I stood in my room and knew this dirty putrid disgusting little blighter wasn't going to go down fast. And because the ick factor was increasing tenfold every time he banged into the mirror, I was actually frozen with ickiness, and all I could do was watch.

Well...watch and say a prayer as he hovered around the light above my bed -"PLEASE do not drop onto my bed to die. PLEEEAAASE do not drop onto my bed to die".

And guess what happened. The dirty putrid disgusting little blighter dropped onto my bed to die.

Thank fark I had made the bed that morning, otherwise he would have fallen between the sheets. Luckily he simply fell onto the top of the doona, but the ick factor for me was....eeewwww....I can't even put it into words.

"You dirty putrid disgusting little blighter" I said (out loud actually, although I doubt he either heard or understood me, nor was there anyone there to concur - it just made me feel better to verbalise it) and in one quick, ick-filled motion I swept him off the bed with the intention of him landing on the floor and dying with a final bzzz....bzzz....bzzzzzzzzzzzz....bz. With the addition of a little breakdance spin on his back for good measure.

Wrong.

Somehow my little swoop brought him back to life, and he rose like the Phoenix from the ashes to bang his little head against my mirrors two or more times.

Then, in one final act of defiance, he came straight for me like a B52 bomber, buzzing like crazy with the 'death buzz', and banged straight into my left shoulder, bouncing off my shirt with a thud. I know what he was thinking: "I'm gonna get you, you Bitch, if it's the last thing I do".

The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. Blech, I'd just been hit by a blowy in training. I was frozen with disgust, and awaited his next move, to determine his next position, can of Mortein at the ready to administer the final toxic downpour. My ears were at the ready, so intent on tuning into that horrible fly death sound. The room was silent....I could hear nothing, and elation filled my every fibre - I had finally won.

I felt him first. Then I heard him. And in the split second that I felt and heard him, I realised that the dirty putrid disgusting little BASTARD (note the change in the terms of reference, it's done on purpose) had bounced off my shoulder and gone straight down my bra, into my cleavage.

My shirt was off my back as quickly as a quick thing. I was hopping from foot to foot (I don't know why, it seems to be something that humans do when they are totally icked out, but I know it didn't help me at all on this occassion), and doing that whole female icked out screaming thing. I didn't even bother to take the bra off, I simply leaned over and pulled it away from my body so that the dirty putrid disgusting little BASTARD had somewhere to fall.

And fall he did, with a final Bz.....Bzzzzzzzzzz...Bzz. And a little breakdance move on his back for good measure.

The dirty putrid disgusting little BASTARD, got his last wish I guess. He DID get back at the Mortein weilding Bitch.

I'm just thankful that it WAS in fact the last thing he did.

Talk later

Janeane
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