Three little flies

There was a fly in Thor’s cereal bowl this morning. He was distressed, but once removed with a teaspoon, he happily finished his Cheerios. Fly two however was the memory of Barney, a fully grown up fly who somehow hatched or rather pupated in the middle of last winter. He was rather sluggish and used to come into the kitchen from somewhere upstairs (where he was clearly living), pretty much every time we had a meal. He would fly down and sit beside me, watching what I did, or indeed in front of one of the children. Occasionally he would sit on my arm and continue to look on, observing what was going on. We got so used to him, we gave him the name ‘Barney’. He was with us for several weeks in all. He was fairly sedate and never once landed on our food. He did not seem at all pesky like the general flies we see in the garden every summer. The third fly story is happening as I write this on the top floor ‘The Lord of the Flies’ (remember the book) seems to be in enactment as I speak, so I had better dash and quell the rebellious five and spare our neighbours Tara’s shrieks, clearly trying to ignite fires and damnation from above.

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A Gay Dad reflecting on life in the Shires of England with my not so famous five and two rapscallion Dalmatian hounds

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