Well I want to write something. I need to practise.
But what? What shall it be? Perhaps I should just look in front of me. For some inspiration.
I’m sitting here. In the sun. By a pool. No sounds to disturb me. Just some traffic noise in the distance. It’s a Saturday. Late morning. Little traffic on the nearby road. Occasionally a dog yaps. Not often. Nor loud enough to be a nuisance. The sun is hot. But there is a wind which stops it being oppressive. I say there is no sound but I lie. A strong wind rustles the fronds of the tall palms. That rustling is constant, when the wind blows. Occasionally the wind drops. Not for long though. For a minute or so only. The rustling stops too. Then you feel the fierce sun. Easy to burn like this. The coolness of the strong breeze on the skin deceives. In front of me is a table. A large patio table. Made of plastic. Nothing on it but an unnecessary ashtray. I don’t smoke. And a fly. A large fly. I dislike flies. Intensely. Always have. It is sitting there. Just sitting. Or should that be standing? I watch the fly. I’ve never taken the time to just watch a fly. Ever. No need really. Too busy trying to swat them. But I’m chilled. Too chilled to do anything but watch the fly. As long as it is on the table and not me, I’m happy to watch. I go motionless. Not wanting to disturb it. And I keep watching.
It is a large fly. As flies go I think. It squats down. A bit like a dog when it’s playing fetch. Waiting for the throw. Anticipating the off. Dogs sit on all fours with the legs, front and back, prepared. Ready to spring away following a throw. It is not a lounging position. It is one of readiness. Like a sprinter in the blocks. This fly is like the sprinter or the dog. It’s ready. It seems – prepared. Then it raises itself a little. The body comes up from the flat position. Like it is half cocked somehow. It rubs its front legs together. Then it turns. I’d never noticed before but a fly turns on the spot. Like an armoured tank would. Tanks stop one track but move the other. To turn on its own axis. The fly does the same. Or seems to. It turns on the spot. First forty five degrees. Then through ninety degrees. Then it walks a few steps. And then sits again. Down flat like the dog once more. It rubs its front legs, yet again.
I’m fascinated now. I’m sitting stock-still. Not moving. Just watching. No, not watching – observing. I am really observing this fly. Something I’ve never done. Ever. In my longish life, I have never observed a fly. A plastic table. Next to a pool. In the sunshine. Observing a fly. How chilled is that?
The fly is content on the table. Occasionally it flies around in a small circle. Just for a moment. Fleetingly. Perhaps less than two seconds. Maybe even one second. Then lands within a foot of where it took off. Perhaps it is testing the wind. To see how strong it is to fly in. Perhaps. I don’t know that. It’s just a guess. But the fly is still here. On the table. Crouched mainly. Rubbing its front legs together. Repeatedly. Turning like a tank now and then. To see what is behind it? To see danger? I don’t know. It stretches up again. By straightening its legs. In phases it lifts itself up. I am amazed at how tall it finally stands. When it is tallest it rubs its legs again. I have never noticed this crouching then lifting itself before. But then, I’ve never looked. Never observed. It crouches low again, then turns again, on the spot, like the tank. Then another rapid circuit to land a foot away again. Why? Should I Google it? I am sure I can find answers. I can’t be asked. I am chilled. I am observing. It’s fun to watch this behaviour. Are flies territorial? Do they fight? Other animals, other insects seem to. But I’ve never seen an aggressive fly. Then again, I’ve never looked. Or observed. Have you? I doubt you have.
Another fly has appeared. Smaller than the first. It’s landed about eighteen inches away from the larger one. I don’t move. I hold my breath. The large fly turns, doing the Sherman tank impression. It watches the newcomer. He’s crouched. I’ve decided the larger fly is a he. No reason why. I’ve just decided. I wonder if the newcomer is a female. Being smaller. Or just a younger male. I don’t know. The larger one is crouching again. Perhaps I shall see if they are territorial. Or if they fight. After a time, the larger one turns away. But not quite I think. His back not fully to the newcomer. I think he watches from the corner of an eye. I don’t know. The smaller fly moves. It walks. No nearer but not further away. The distance between them is still the same. I remain motionless. So do the flies for an “endless” half minute. The smaller one walks again. No nearer, no farther. Then, suddenly they are off. I saw neither move first. They fly and almost collide. For only a second, no more, they are airborne. They land in almost identical spots to take off. Was it a fight? Or a courtship? They are both back on the table. Did they make contact in flight? Too quick for me to tell. But nearly I’m sure. All over in that second. Or less. They watch each other. I watch them. Fascinated. Too fascinated to move. I do not want this to end. This observation. But what did I see? A punch up? Foreplay? Sex itself? If so, it was sex on the fly for sure. They are both crouched now. Flat again. It starts over. A tank turn by the larger. A raising of the body. Another dogfight of a second or less. It repeats twice more. I have been still. Motionless. I still am. Just observing. Attenborough would be proud of me. Perhaps I should whisper for the camera. But there is no camera.
I am so still a ladybird settles on my forearm. I do not move for fear of disturbing my subjects. Only my eyes shift to see it. I let it sit. The flies repeat the performance. I am none the wiser if it is aggression or procreation.
The wind has stopped. On the last sortie only the larger fly returns. He squats. Alone on the table. He raises himself again. To full height. He tank turns a full circuit. He is alone. The smaller one has gone. Because the wind has died? Or in defeat? Or sated perhaps? I do not know. The larger fly takes off. For good this time. He does not return.
I look down at my arm and see the Ladybird still there. I count the spots. It’s a Harlequin. I squash it flat. I hate them as much as I do flies.