Eight small flies have taken up residence in my bedroom. They doodle lazy triangles above my bed and then quite suddenly explode into frenzied dogfights which end as quickly as they start. They rest in pairs, two to a star on old Christmas decorations that still hang from the ceiling.
Mr Pig (my companion’s cat) has begun a slow genocide. There are two less flies than a few minutes ago. The survivors seem unperturbed at the lessening in their numbers continuing to gambol while the stealthy executioner looks on.
Pig is a skillful killer of the tiny. At the studio she slays spiders laying their curled corpses out in a neat rows.
My dear companion has just recalled a time when The Pig caught a mouse and laid it neatly under her bedside table next to two toy mice. Each (apparently) faced the same direction and was evenly spaced.
I am just about ready to face the events of yesterday, my acting debut as “the Gimp”. But there are so many memories I feel the need to allow them to settle before committing them to writing. The photgraph below shows my hairpiece but not the full effect of my transformation.
Fly
On returning from breakfast, a birthday celebration at The Greyhound, I returned to my rooms to discover only one fly extant. Mistress Lock was also at breakfast. She informed us that she had many interesting photographs of “Gimp” and some video which I look forward to seeing soon. Post prandial exhaustion has put me in my bed again.
