Summertime...

The door is open, a pleasant breeze tickling my bare calves and ankles, as I sit here at the kitchen table. L is hanging washing on the line. The sky is clearest blue. A fly walks across the window opposite where I am sitting. On top of the radiator lies the purple fly-swat we bought for £1.50 on Todmorden Market yesterday. It was adorned with a strange pink daisy-shaped flower - artificial obviously - big enough to cover the business end of the swat entirely. It was easy to remove. The woman who sold it to us expressed the view that it was 'gross' but unfortunately this was the only one she had to offer us. Was it some sort of prudish attempt to conceal the murderous intent of the weapon? Well, the flower went straight in the bin as soon as we got home, and soon the windowsills were strewn with small black bodies. I am intrigued by my cavalier attitude to the deaths of flies, whilst always carefully rescuing and freeing bees with a small glass and a postcard or bus timetable, with encouraging words and kind wishes. Obviously I am making a value judgement about which insects are dispensable and which worthy of preservation. I feel fine about it, but I do feel very aware as I swat and remove bodies, of my power over these minuscule, to me deeply irritating, life forms.