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A shiny fly came, sat on the coffee pot lid, it wasn't
big, but behaved in the manner of a son of, say,
a minor Hungarian aristocrat. I swatted it with a dish
cloth it fell into the sink, not dead opened the tap and
down the plughole it went. I was eating a slice of loaf
with blueberry jam, when it came out of the plughole,
clambered out of the sink, sat on saucer and began
cleaning its wings while buzzing loudly.
I was eating a slice of loaf with strawberry jam, as
a way of variation, when a small, grey faced fly came
flying in it settled on my cigarette lighter, I knew this
one came from a tower block estate hidden behind
a ring-road, a place with burnt out cars and grim silence;
where the 'racaille' live, as the French president said.
I killed it twice to be sure to be sure it didn't survive
long enough to try lit my lighter.
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