I consider myself a broadly live-and-let-live sort. I don’t eat animals and treat my garden as a habitat for wildlife, including greenfly, blackfly and the slugs eating all my strawberries. I love bees and tolerate wasps. We’re all just trying to survive; I get it. But here are some things I have said recently (minus the expletives that made up the majority of each sentence) to houseflies: “You’ll be dead soon, because I’m going to murder you”; “Get out – I hate you”; “If you don’t leave, I’ll kill you”; “Shut UP”; “That’s it – you’re dead.”
I can’t stand flies. Bloodlust boils in me at the sight and sound of a bluebottle casually vibing in the fruit bowl, buzzing frantically around my office or banging against the window again and again like a dopey drunk. Opening windows in search of a heatwave cross-breeze has brought them buzzing in; they seemingly have no inclination or ability to leave and it’s driving me wild.
