High-fliers and shortcomings.

On a warm summer's eve everything is peaceful. There's a gentle breeze rolling in from the window to keep me cool, my legs are bare and resting casually on the edge of the small sofa, the sky is still light and birds are still chirping at half past 7 in the evening... It's all glorious.

Apart from the flies. At first there was one. He was HUGE. The kind you can hear from the other side of the room. When he approached my head I dove for cover for fear of being ploughed down by a jet engine! This was shocking. Armed with a rolled up GQ magazine (makes for a hefty baton) I charged at the fly. He was clever though. A bit of mindless waving around the room, and he left. But it felt as though he was entertained by dodging my swing, and eventually decided to leave on his terms.

I sat down gleefully contemplating my victory, and continued browsing the internet. Not two minutes later, I spotted three new flies circling around my drying nighty, hanging off the window cornice. Did the huge fly procreate in that two minutes? Did he split into three? Was he just the fly king, who decided to send forth his minions? I guess I'll never know, but I suspected he was to blame.


GQ at my aid, I once again began 'encouraging' the flies to leave. But this time, they were faster and more nimble. Damn.

I put my nighty away, thinking it might smell like flowers, or lotus flower... or black diamond or whatever fabric softener smells like these days. Alas, it wasn't the smell. They continued to circle around each other playfully, mockingly.

My next solution was an old classic I remember from my grandma's cottage in Bulgaria; the dishcloth. The cottage was full of flies in the summer, and grandma used to wave the cloth gently at them, funnelling them towards the open door. Occasionally, for some stubborn ones, she would execute the old wet-towel flicking trick. Her aim was incredible; there was no messing with grandma.

Dishcloth... dishcloth... my blue shorts will do. I started gently, as a friend to the animals, waving the flies towards the open window. Two of them reluctantly left and I felt empowered. There was only the one left. Little did I know, this one was special: he was the Neo of the group, the Luke Skywalker, the Kung Fu panda. No amount of gentle waving and gesturing would stop him.

So I recalled grandma's skilful towel-whipping technique, her poignant stare, her mercilessness. I channelled all of her teachings, aimed my shorts and blasted a killer flick towards the fly.

My shorts flew out of the window. Fuck!

I ran to my attic window and looked out, to see them caught on the guttering having slid down the side of the roof. Fantastic. I live on the third floor, in the attic room and the guttering is practically inaccessible to me. For a small second I considered climbing out of my window to try and get them, but rescuing my shorts wasn't really the way I wanted this life to end. I then contemplated leaving them there; I mean how much do I wear them anyway? LOTS! They were my favourite shorts, which ironically I'd found in my wardrobe at grandma's cottage. Damn it.

I fashioned a fishing hook out of wool and the bare hanger from which I'd removed my nighty. I forced myself to recall all my A-level mechanics knowledge... F=ma... the forces that act on a circle... Trying desperately to apply them to the situation, I swung the plastic hanger-hook in a circle towards my shorts, hoping it will hook them.

Fail. Fail, fail, fail. The hanger was too light and the cooling breeze was wreaking havoc on my brilliant solution. I desperately continued, cursing the breeze and the flies and my own idiocy. Neo was buzzing around with as close to a smirk as a fly can have.

Eventually, it was time to upgrade the hook. I took a heavier, wooden hanger and tied two pieces of string either end of it, to better control the angle of the hook. This was a winner. It took seconds. The ascent of my shorts up the slanted roof was like watching your country's flag being ceremonially raised. Such a fantastic achievement! And they said maths would never come in useful (which it sort of didn't)... In your face, Neo!

I feel like the battle was won, but the war has been monumentally lost, as I now sit and write this piece commemorating the day my shorts were nearly lost, with the three flies weaving an invisible plait just exactly where they first appeared.