Jonny McCambridge: Conclusive proof that I couldn’t hurt a fly

‘Daddy!’

‘What’s up, buddy?’

‘Daddy, I need you to come in here.’

I get up quickly because there’s an unmistakable tinge of alarm in his voice. Possible scenarios rush through my mind, perhaps he has set the living room on fire, or got his head stuck in a vase, or run out of crisps.

I enter the living room where my son is watching TV.

‘What’s wrong son?’

‘There’s a fly daddy.’

‘What?’

‘A fly.’

‘So?’

‘It’s annoying me. It keeps buzzing around.’

I scratch my head. Then I see the dark, almost metallic object, crawling across the window.

‘I don’t think it’s doing any harm son.’

‘I don’t like it daddy, will you get rid of it?’

I think for a second. Then I open a window and the door. I roll up a newspaper and start to try and usher the fly out of the room. It doesn’t comply.

‘What are you doing daddy?’ my boy asks.

‘I’m trying to get it to go outside.’

‘Why don’t you just swat it?’

I ponder my answer carefully, aware of my responsibility as a father.

‘Well, it’s only a wee fly and it hasn’t done any harm to us. We don’t really want to hurt it if we don’t have to.’

My fumbling attempts at diverting the fly continue for some more minutes. I can feel my son watching me. Eventually, entirely of its own volition, the fly buzzes out the door.

‘There you go son, all sorted.’

‘Can I have some more crisps daddy?’

I go back to my office and start to read some emails. Soon I become aware of some movement above my computer screen. I notice the shiny blue-black fly inching across the top of my monitor. I smile indulgently, amused by its persistence. I work on for a few more minutes until the fly begins to crawl across my screen, seemingly following the movement of my mouse cursor. I wave my hand and it flies away. I get up and open the window.

I start working on a story, but all I can see now is the fly which has once again come to rest on the top of my monitor. I wave my hand again, and it flies away before returning a few seconds later to exactly the same spot. This cycle is repeated on several occasions, the fly calmly resuming its favoured location each time.

I determine to ignore it, reminding myself that I should try to be the bigger man. I write a few paragraphs and check my emails. The fly again begins to follow my cursor. I force a smile. It’s only a fly, I’m not going to let it get to me. I am a creature of reason.

I begin to compose an introduction to a story. I pause and sit back, trying to clear my mind as I think about what I want to say. Then I fling my arm forward violently and pound my fist at the spot on the screen where the fly was one second before. My monitor topples backwards onto the table. The fly buzzes happily above.

My son hears the commotion and calls from the next room.

‘What happened daddy?’

‘Nothing, nothing, everything’s fine.’

I restore the computer monitor to upright. The fly descends from above and rests atop. I grab the closest thing to hand, which turns out to be my phone and begin swinging it wildly at the insect. The fly must be getting bored with the game because it always waits until the very last moment to escape, and then moves only the minimal amount before resuming its previous position.

I calm myself down and try a different approach. I move slowly, seeing how close I can get to the fly. Remarkably it seems totally unperturbed by my presence. I lift my phone again and get close enough to take some photographs. The fly doesn’t mind. Indeed it even seems to like it, turning round, presumably, to show off its better side. I bend over until I am just inches away and can see the orange glow in its eyes. I watch it, it watches me. I take a deep breath.

Then I slam my fist down on top of the monitor. The fly buzzes happily away, and then returns to its spot while I inspect the damage caused to my hand.

Now things have gone too far. There is anger coursing through my veins. I grab my bottle of water and begin to squirt liquid towards the monitor. The fly doesn’t even bother moving and just watches disinterestedly.

Abandoning this as a stupid idea I remove one of my bedroom slippers from my foot and begin to chase the fly around the room. The black sole of the slipper slaps the table, the wall, the window. I’m not really getting close to the fly, but I want it to know that the rules of the game have changed now and that this is now a battle to the death, for either of us.

The fly retreats to a spot near the ceiling. I climb atop the table and begin swinging the slipper above my head. I may also be screaming insults at the fly as I do this.

Then I notice that my son is in the room.

‘What are you doing daddy? Why are you on the table?

‘Uh, I’m just playing son.’

‘Can I play too?’

‘Um, no, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He looks confused before he retreats.

I sit down, chastened. I notice that the fly seems to have gone, presumably escaped out the window. It’s a pyrrhic victory and I feel no satisfaction. I return to my work, aware that I am now behind schedule. I need to catch up. I type a few more words before my son calls for me from the next room.

‘Daddy!’

What’s up, buddy?’

‘Daddy, I need you to come in here.’

I clench my fists tight.

‘What is it son?’ What’s up?’

‘There’s a wasp in the room.’

—— ——

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