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.
