It was a joy to be on the train and heading for home. I love Edinburgh, but the time had come to move on and get back to reality.
About half way back something that I took to be a largish spider suddenly fell on to me from the luggage rack above. Despite my Herculean efforts of the last few months this still made me jump and let out a barely audible shriek. I quickly flicked the "spider" off my jacket and it landed on the table in front of me.
The spider turned out to be a fly. The way it had fallen rather than hovered and landed was what had confused me, but it was sitting rather dazed on my newspaper and I don't think it was just my flick that had caused this. It was clearly an old fly (so what, maybe three days old) and was on its last legs. It had obviously been flying above me and then everything had just packed in and it had fallen downwards. But it wasn't dead yet. It just sat on the table, looking at me.
I was already slightly spooked by it falling on me and now as it sat there regarding me with what I took to be a hint of disdain I found my shackles rising even more. The strange fly who could not even live up to its name (should it be renamed a "fall" or a "sit") was putting the fear of God into me. "Stop looking at me!" I wanted to shout, "Stop looking at me, you incompetent and weak slave of Satan!"
But I didn't. I was in first class and this behaviour would only be tolerated in economy.
I tried to shake the paper so the fly would fly (or fall) away. But he was old and weak and weighed down by his evil powers, so he just sat looking at me. I could have crushed the fly with ease. But such a cold blooded murder of something so helpless and yet so possessed seemed wrong. So I decided to hide the insect from my gaze and I put the top of my empty coca cola bottle over it. This stopped it looking at me, but made me feel like it was I who was the evil one. Surely it would be kinder to kill it than to imprison it in such a small and dark space (where it might possible asphyxiate: a slow and painful death. Yet somehow it felt that I was less responsible for its demise if I had merely placed the lid over it. Crushing it would be wrong, but imprisoning it at least kept me safe from its strange dark powers (a bit like when they put those villains in that crystal thing in space in Superman).
I left it there for a while and yet I knew it was still looking at me and my own wrongness was constantly on my mind. Yet if I released him now, fuelled with justified anger he might go for my jugular and, I don't know, put some poo from its legs on to me.
I was reminded of the time when I lived in Clapham and we were being plagued by mice. As a vegetarian at the time I was in a moral quandary as I didn't want to kill the mice, but it was annoying having them running over our work surfaces and eating our food and pooing all over the place. One day I encountered one in the kitchen up on the counter and was again freaked out and scared of it like I was a stocky legged black woman from an old cartoon (but with no Thomas to help me). The mouse was almost as scared of me as I was of it (it could never have been as scared) and ran for cover under a spice rack. In a fit of confusion I threw cumin in its mouse face and then trapped it in its hiding place using a piece of board.
My flat mate was away that weekend and I didn't know what to do. It felt terribly wrong to leave it where it was, starving to death and yet otherwise I would have to let it go, or kill it. I was stupidly squeamish.
I left it where it was for two days.
When my flat mate returned he took away the board, coaxed the terrified and weak (and barely alive) mouse into a cup. Then took it outside and stamped on it.
So my principles and fears had merely extended the life of the mouse to give it 48 hours of abject misery.
Long time fans might remember the sketch I wrote about my cruel cowardice.
Back in the present day, eventually a man cleaning up the carriage picked up the rubbish off my table, including the bottle top. The fly was still there and still alive. He was actually facing in the other direction. He slowly turned round and started looking at me again. It was an acusing look. I was fairly certain at this point that in fact this fly was the Jesus of the insect world. And I was the one who had subjected him to a three day death (in the fly time-scale of things). He made a buzz that sounded not dissimilar to "Don't forgive him father. He knew exactly what he was doing."
Had I helped him and nurtured him back to health I would probably have been assured a place in insect heaven. Though to be honest, I'm not sure I'd want to go there. All those insects crawling all over me would scare the bejesus out of me. Presumably if there is a fly Jesus, there is a bee Jesus too. Ha ha. I am funny.
Next time I looked the fly had gone. Perhaps he'd been taken up to Heaven, or maybe his time under the lid had helped him to recuperate and he'd just flown off. Either way, we shall not see his like again.
