Dear Diary. Girlfriend, the fly and I are all in the kitchen together. The fly is buzzing round and round enthusiastically. It thinks it's part of the family now.

"This fly's been annoying me for three days," I say. It's pretty much the house pet by this point.

Girlfriend picks up a tea towel. She aims, then she releases the tea towel. THWACK.

"I think I got it!" she says.

Her theory is disproved two seconds later when the fly reemerged, unscathed.

"Here, let me try," I say.

She gives me the tea towel.

Normally I'm crap at things like this. Anything physical or anything involving hand-to-eye coordination.

Don't aim for the fly, I think. That's what the fly wants you to do.

So instead I aim for the spot a couple of centimetres above the fly.

WHACK. I smack it as fast and as hard as I can with the tea towel.

The fly falls down, dead.

I feel a little bit sad because that fly has kept me company this week. Not too sad though. Good riddance, I think, as I throw the fly in the bin.