At 9.13 tonight a fly flew into my room. For the last twenty minutes it has been making my life hell.
At first I opened the window wider to allow the winged beastie a chance to get out of my life. It did not accept this option, and therefore war was declared.
I have no qualms about killing flies. I know that if their is reincarnation, awful people like Hitler, Maggie Thatcher and Sarah off of Hollyoaks become flies. Flies spread disease, and are a sure sign of death. Flies are annoying little bastards. Therefore, when the little bastard spent its five minute period of grace buzzing noisily and studiously ignoring its ticket to freedom, it signed its own death warrant.
Armed with a can of air freshener in one hand and a rolled up copy of the New Scientist in the other, I attempted to conjure within myself the spirit of the goddess Artemis (preferably without the extra breasts, though for all I know, D. might be into that sort of thing).
The problem is, the flying fucker is clever. Very clever.
I am five foot three. A rolled up copy of the New Scientist is approximately twelve inches long. I can jump about six inches in the air. My ceiling, however, is higher than six feet, nine inches. So the bastard fly stayed close to the ceiling, out of smacking distance.
I gave it a second chance, and opened the door, attempting to waft it out of the room.
It did not take this last chance of peace, choosing instead to buzz furiously at me. Time for the Oust treatment.
I trained the can in its direction, unleashing a gust of eye-watering lavender scent. It attempted to move away, but I kept the spray trained firmly on it. It began to fly erratically, making its first mistake--or so it seemed. My finger on the button, I continued my onslaught of floral death.
It dropped from the ceiling like a stone. A very fast stone.
I did not see the body, so therefore assumed it dead. This was perhaps my greatest error. I have seen enough television to know that unless you see the corpse, one must never assume the villain is dead.
A few brief minutes of peace ensued, and then I heard a low hum, building up into a buzzing crescendo. My nemesis had faked his own death.
It is still on the ceiling, taunting me.
I have been outsmarted by an invertebrate.
In other news, I have an interview for a PhD next week. Go me!
Current Mood: frustrated