FF - Your hot magazine
Page 32
Female Focus Fly Gun or Fly Swatter?
Vintage insect fly spray can One of my earliest memories as a child was being rushed to the hospital. The Australian heat in the early hours had propelled me to look for something to drink and there it was a French fly-tox tin sprayer.
I unscrewed the lid and drank the insecticide. My sister caught me and woke my parents. I was three years old. The doctor declared, under his breath, that I was crazy, tweaking a pugilistic response from my father. I had to spend the next thirty years convincing him otherwise. I have memories of insect intrusion and stories from the outback about being that many flies they covered and blackened the windows, which was welcomed as it helped cool the place - Ozzie optimism. Living in Britain afterwards, well, such things were less of a nuisance.
No Flies on Me Whilst hanging some old CDs on string in the doorway, one sweltering afternoon - the reflection apparently deters their intrusion, my Inamorata sauntered in and threw down a present from a shopping therapy trip. She had found an amusing toy and thought of me - instant remedy. The gun kills without squishing, once you line up your victim – just squeeze the trigger. One hour on the shooting range and I already viewed this as more than a big boy’s toy. Flies that were more settled in than the troops at Stalingrad, had been relieved.
Roxy This has led to another problem. Now that I’m the fastest gun in the house, standing there, armed to the teeth with a plastic fly gun, body count twenty, I realise my obsession has rubbed off on Roxy, a scruffy, care-free, Heinz 57, rat-esque hound. Watching me for some time has now gripped her, realising this is her way to give back. Roxy is fully aware that jumping on the furniture raises the decibel level from the human female species of the house. A fly that has had the audacity to meander in on her territory is chased down, and that includes over shelves, sofas and the dining table. I’ve not mentioned the table to the missus because of course Roxy’s obsession is my fault and “it was the wind that blew over your mother’s vase.” Even though the hound is an accomplished fly assassin, I won’t be hiring her out because the fly gun can’t be beat. If you’re lucky enough to spot a mosquito you can still get the edge. Cleaning after use is recommended, but that depends on how paranoid you’re about the hundreds of different pathogens these flies can carry, including Salmonella, Staphylococcus, E. Coli. So you can hang CDs in the doorway, put lime in the top of you bottles of beer, or arm yourself with a red plastic toy that does the job. Roxy? With her watery brown eyes looking at me, as she scratches behind her left ear - multi-tasking, I think about my next article - malas pulgas - bad fleas.
Mark Shearman has been living on the Costa Blanca for 14 years his blog is Sherm Donor -
http://shermdonor.blogspot.com.es/ where you can find his novels and short stories.
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