RIP Mr Fly.

One of my housefly buddies breathed his last tonight. I found him a soggy mess in a little pool of water by the sink in the kitchen. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and heart massage being impracticable, I did what I could with a paper towel but to no avail. He kicked his legs a few times, and then keeled over. He’s currently lying peacefully by a lamp in my office, poor chap. That’s sad, right?

You think I’m joking, don’t you? Not a bit of it! The fact is, there comes a time now and then in the life of a part-time loner when the company of a housefly has merit. I’ve thought of giving them names, but it isn’t easy to tell one housefly from another. Unless you’re another housefly, of course, which I’m not. Not yet. I suppose I could follow Christopher Robin’s lead and call them all Alexander, but that always struck me as a bit of a cheat. I think it best to call them all Mr Fly. Being unwilling or incapable of learning to differentiate between one fly and another, the least I can do is admit my fault and take refuge in the generic.

Would it surprise anyone to learn that my favourite character from all four series of Blackadder was Mad Gerald?