God, Carruthers - the flies!

I'm so excited. You see, I've spent years trying to avoid killing flies because the Buddhists tell us that it is wrong to do so. Flies feature largely my life here, as it happens. I live in an apartment with an elevated terrace that faces the roof of a derelict building. The vista from my doors has a kind of Mary Poppins charm to it – you know, the scene where Dick van Dyke pops his head out of a chim-ernee, and a brush pops out of another – but there is a drawback to this delightful scene. Hundreds of pigeons (the other bane of my life) live in this roof, and presumably they die there too. Rotting pigeon carcasses attract flies – as do (no doubt) the piles of crap and piss that mix together in one magical potion to form the mountains of guano that must lie underneath the roof. So, when I open my balcony doors, my apartment is immediately invaded by dozens of small, common flies that circle the room in a kind of languid display not dissimilar to that of the stacked aircraft above Heathrow airport.

Hereto, I have opted to ignore these parasites until such time as I am due to leave the house, or go to bed. I then normally begin the laborious task of evicting them through the balcony doors. This involves waving cloths and papers in their direction and hoping that they will take the hint and depart. It's maddeningly frustrating – as fast as I can shoo half a dozen of them out into the world through one door, another half a dozen (or perhaps the same ones) come in through another. Even the ones I do manage to coax towards the threshold, sometime do an about-turn and stubbornly refuse to leave. This ridiculous activity consumes hours of my time.

I've tried subtle tactics too. I strung a fluttering line of Tibetan prayer flags across the doors in an attempt to confuse and distract them, hoping that the blur of colour would render the interior of my apartment as somewhere to be avoided. Not so, they gleefully dance past the flags as easily as the Red Baron would evade the British ack-ack over the skies of southern Britain.

I bought a lavender plant and positioned it by the terrace door in the belief that this particular plant is to flies what garlic is to vampires, or kryptonite to Superman. All that happened was that a great fat pigeon – presumably an ally of the flies – jumped on it and trampled it to a flattened piece of scrub.

I then bought an oil burner and began regularly to light candles under lavender oil so as to permeate the atmosphere with what I hoped would be a poisonous aroma. They swerve past this with a contemptuous glance and head off to the centre of the room where they find, presumably, safer air. I shoved some infusion sticks into a jar of lavender-smelling fluid, and the next thing I saw was a cheeky blighter actually perched on top of one of the sticks, energetically rubbing his legs together.

Well, now the pussy-footing is over. The Buddhists can go to hell (as so might I) and, inspired by the bravery of the arm-swatting Barack Obama, I have decided instead to kill the flies. To this end, I have purchased an electric fly-swatter in the shape of a tennis racket. I first saw this device demonstrated in a shop in Venice in June, and the effortless way in which the negoziante was despatching the invaders with each instant sharp crackle, impressed me.

So, I am now armed and ready. I wait here in sweet pleasure, knowing that I will no longer be troubled by this odious marauding mob, and that I will rid myself of its presence with no more effort than practising my back-swing. Yay – bring it on!