So let’s change the subject for something more pleasant. What do we like doing most of all. Now flies are not so different to humans in that respect. Sitting on this wall I am using my sense of smell and sight, looking for food and perhaps something female looking for a good looking fly like myself. And here she comes.

“Hi floogie, what about a maggot producing session to keep our species going?”

“I am not your floogie, and I am only here for a few days, so I don’t just take the first smelly object that happens to look my way.”

“My charm must be waning, she has flown on. I think she was one of those snobby flies from the cemetery, they all think they are something better. I might not get such five star food as she does, but those humans can be very fly friendly sometimes.

I must explain, my wall is not just a wall. There are walls and walls, and mine is absolutely goluptuous. The ideal place for a winged beauty like myself. It is a kitchen wall. The place where the humans eat bread and jam, drink milk and make a mess on the floor, especially the miniature humans. Paradise for my sort. Just sit and wait and it happens. Breakfast is finished and everything is laying on the table just wanting me to pass bye and have a dip in the remains. Five minutes on that table and I can sit and sleep all day on the wall; no hunger, no thirst. I am insatiated and life is just great.

There comes another one. Perhaps I might be lucky this time.

“Hey floogle, what about it. You and me sitting on a wall together?” I think I might be lucky, she is looking my way and she is landing on the wall.

“OK big boy, come on over, I have some time spare, hope you are not a beginner.”

“Me, a beginner. You must be joking.”

Ok, everyone, looks like I will be busy for the next few hours. You know, ensuring the survival of our race and everything that belongs to it.

I am back again, now that was a success. She seemed quite happy and has flown off to other pastures. She said something about the cow field with plenty of food for the babies. We really have beautiful babies, just too many sometimes to know who they belong to. But who cares, as long as they are born in the right place with plenty of food.

It is now time to do some colubering. You do not know what that is? Just something that we flies do now and again, one of our little secrets. I feel much better afterwards. Might even take a walk across the other wall, You call it a ceiling, but for us it is a wall, just another direction. Makes the scenery look more interesting. Oh dear, I think one of the cemetery tribe is near bye. I can smell him.

“Are you talking to me?”

There he is, big and smelly with hairs on this legs. I know, I have hairs as well, but his hairs are more like fur; everything twice as big as a normal fly like myself.

“No, I was just admiring your wonderful streamline body and your flying talent.”

“I should think so, we trample wall flies like you, if you get too cheeky. After all I am a cemetery fly, one of the best.”

And he flew off, thank goodness. You should never get to near those sort. They can be very nasty.

I can feel a faint tremble in the air – I think trouble is coming. Whew! that was close, I think humans just seem to make a sport of swiping at us flies with their hands. The fly swatters are worse. You feel the human hand coming, but the swatters let air through the gaps and you get no warning; but that’s life. One of the reasons I stay on the wall. Down below there are a few departed of our species lying on the floor.

Anyhow enough said, but just think. The next time you see one of us, it is not the idea that a dead fly is the only good fly. We have our uses, so just let us sit on the wall. We might even be meditating.

“Yes, Melissa, why?”

“Just wondering dad.”

That was the answer, and dad was sure there would be no problems. How could a dad know what actually went through the head of a ten year old? Mum died when I was so small, I do not even remember what she looked like. I was just reminded by photos. Dad just took over where mum left off I suppose, which meant he had to guide me through school,  and even help me when I had a fight with the boy next door. Bobby was ok, but he didn’t like me getting better notes in school than he did. I could climb trees a lot faster than he could and was the best swimmer in the class. Yes, dad made a good job of my education. I suppose men are more down to earth in the necessities of life.

All the other kids at school would talk about the television programmes they watched; mostly cartoons and animal stuff. The only animal stuff we watched were the medical ones, all about sick animals with broken bones and how they repaired them. I could understand that as it was a bit in the line of things that dad did as a job. He even had his own company.

Otherwise my television experiences were limited to political discussions that I did not really understand. I just got from dad which politician was fit to lead the country and which one did not have a clue. I noticed he quite admired it when a female politician was successful.

Dad also liked watching gardening on the television. We had a small garden but dad never did much in it. He was more interested in the park next door to our house which was enormous, with lots of sculptures. Dad liked to take a walk with me through the park. He even took me to the place where they carved the stones for the decorations. Ok, I supposed you guessed, I was also good in art subjects at school and my best notes were in nature study, although the teacher was not so happy when I knew more than she did. She seemed to be more interested in little animals and trees and flowers. I was more interested in how it all worked, especially the animals. When I asked her if we could dissect a frog, she told me it was not something for little girls. Anyhow, no problem, dad showed me how to do that at home .

The problem with dad was, he needed a friend, although a dad is the best friend you can have, but he needed a girlfriend. I was the only girl in the house and although I was quite good at helping dad with the cooking and cleaning up, there were some things I was not so good at. I had been living on chicken from the KFC, hamburgers from McDonald’s and all sorts of fast food. Now and again dad and I would try something else, perhaps a steak. That was easy to cook, dad and I both had the same taste, we didn’t like the meat so well done, just a little bit pinkish inside.

Anyhow it seemed that She was coming this week-end again. Now dad does not meet many women in his branch of business, but it seemed he met her at one of the conferences he had to attend now and again. I remember that conference quite well, it was one of those where he had to stay away for almost a week, so I had to go to grandmothers. Nothing wrong with grandmother, but she felt I should show more interest in sewing and knitting and reading books with nice stories. She did her best, but as soon as I could, I would play in the garden she had: much more interesting, she even had a stream with frogs. No, of course, I didn’t take them apart, but grandmother did not like finding them in her kitchen in her empty glass jam jars.

When dad returned from his conference he told me all about Her in the car on the way home from grandmothers. When we arrived home, he was still talking about Her and said She would be paying us a visit at the week-end. I thought dad meant just Saturday, but no, it was a complete week-end and she did not even sleep in the spare room which I suppose was none of my business. I remember Sunday morning when she arrived at breakfast.

“Good morning Melissa, how did you sleep?” she asked.

“With my eyes closed” was my logical answer and she did not even scream when she found the snail sitting between her eggs and bacon.

“Oh look at that Raymond” she said to my father “looks like a common garden snail. Shame it isn’t a Burgundy snail, they are very tasty.”

My dad was not very pleased. “Melissa is that your work, putting that snail on Morticia’s plate.”

“Oh, sorry dad; must have dropped out of my hand. I found him in the garden.”

“No problem, Melissa” said Morticia which was Her name, “snails are very interesting creatures, but I am sure he is unhappy on my plate. Just excuse me a moment, I will return him to the garden. He will be much happier there.”

She, Morticia, took the snail in her hand and returned it to its earthy home in the garden. I had a funny feeling that Morticia would be here to stay.

After breakfast Dad told me to get ready, we will go for a walk in the park next door, and afterwards we would go for lunch to the Mahogony Parlour. It was the best restaurant in town and as you can imagine, the furniture was all in warm brown shades, made of mahogany of course, although dad said it was probably imitation.

I was looking forward to going through the park and I was sure Morticia would hate it; all those monuments and flowers, mostly lilies and roses. How wrong can you be?

“Look, Raymond, how sweet that little angel is on that white marble block and the carvings on that stone, all in gold, just wonderful and the flowers are so well looked after, their perfume is so sweet” and so it continued. Even I began to like Morticia.

Eventually we arrived at the restaurant.

“What would you like to eat” dad asked.

“I’ll have the calf’s liver, in a red wine sauce,” hoping my decision would shock Morticia.

“What a good healthy choice Melissa” Morticia said, “I think I will have the same. “What about you Raymond?”

“I will have the calf’s liver as well, but Melissa, be careful, the last time we almost didn’t get the stains out of your blouse.”

“That wasn’t my fault dad, it wasn’t cooked properly and was still a bit raw.”

Eventually the Morticia week-end was finished and dad and I brought her to the station. That evening dad said he would have to have a few important words with me.

“What do you think of Morticia?” he asked

Silly question, I thought as it seemed that dad had already made his decision.

“She’s ok dad, I suppose, why?”

“Could you imagine her living here with both of us.”

“You mean like a mum.”

“Something like that Melissa.”

“Why not?” was my answer and for dad the subject was dealt with.

Morticia arrived with two large suitcases the next week-end.

“Hello Melissa, it looks like I will be moving in with your dad. I am sure we will have a lovely time together.”

“Are you going to marry my dad?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so, you know he did ask me and I said yes. I am sure we will get on well together. I met your father at a business conference. I was there with my father who has the same business as Raymond and I will probably be working together with your father.”

So that was decided. I was glad that she told me she was in the same line of things as dad was. I think that was one of the reasons that dad had never found a real girlfriend.

The wedding was held at the local town hall as dad wasn’t into religion and neither was Morticia.

A week later the plaque on the door of dad’s company was removed and new one was put there.

It used to be “Raymond Smith Funeral Parlour” and the new one said “Raymond and Morticia Smith Funeral Parlour”.

He slept for awhile and when he awoke he took his violin in his hand and began to play a soothing melody. It was then that “The Cat” seemed to spring to life and began to scratch on the window pane, meowing to the tune that Holmes was playing. He immediately stopped and placed the bow and violin on his desk.

“Watson, what is that charismatic voice accompanying the rhythm of my violin.”

Holmes was now fully awake, he eyes searching in the room for the noise of “The Cat”.

“I believe it belongs to the feline standing on the ledge outside the window Holmes” I answered.

“Ah yes Watson, I perceive the luminescence of a cats eyes. I believe the feline must appreciate the mellow tone of the instrument. Open the window and allow our audience to enter.”

I opened the window and “The Cat” entered at once with a welcoming meow. “The Cat” settled on the floor besides Holmes` chair and gazed upwards towards Holmes and the violin.

“What do you think Dr. Watson? Does “The Cat” wish for more music?”

“I am certain Holmes” was my answer “and as a reward perhaps a saucer of milk would be welcome.”

“Oh Watson, I perceive from your answer that you have no experience of felines and their needs.”

“I am sorry Holmes, but it is a known fact that cats like to drink milk.”

“Yes Watson, that is true, all animals like to partake in the liquid known from our younger days as babies. It remains buried in the cells of our brain. But tell me Watson, would you like a glass of milk?”

“It is not my favourite drink Holmes, but yes, a glass of milk is known to be healthy and nutritious.”

“Good Watson, then I will pour you a glass of cat milk.”

“Cat milk, do we have any? And that is not according to my human taste buds.”

“Then tell me Watson, do you think that our milk would be appetising for a cat.”

“You mean, a cat would prefer cat milk.”

“Of course Watson, and we have none. I would suggest a glass of water would be more helpful. This cat has found its way to our window and is probably most thirsty.”

I then poured a saucer of water for “The Cat” and it lapped until it was satisfied. Holmes began again to play a soothing melody on the violin and slowly “The Cat” fell asleep, curled in a ball besides Holmes’ feet.

It was soon lunch time and Mrs- Hudson, our housekeeper, knocked on the door and entered carrying a tray with our lunch. She had made one of her famous meat pies and the aroma of the broth soon surrounded us. The table was laid for two and Holmes and I sat down to eat. It was then that “The Cat” made itself conspicuous with a meowing sound as if to say “What about me”.

“Mrs. Hudson” called Holmes, I think we need an extra plate. Cats are particularly fond of meat dishes.”

“Oh, Mr. Holmes, you now have a cat. I did not realise that you were so fond of cats-“

“Mrs. Hudson, I think it is the cat that is fond of us.” said Holmes.

and Mrs. Hudson fetched a further plate and put a portion of meat on the plate. “The Cat” ate until the plate was empty and returned to its sleeping position.

“Well Watson” said Holmes “I think our feline friend is here to stay.”

“The Cat” remained with us for a long time. She seemed to observe all our movements in the apartment, but Holmes knew why. One day she disappeared, as quickly as she arrived. She was just not there anymore.

“Holmes, have you seen “The Cat”?. This morning she was eating some morsels of meat when I left for my doctor’s practice and since returning, she seems to have disappeared.”

“Oh Watson, of course she has. “The cat” has fulfilled her purpose in our lodgings.”

“What do you mean Holmes?”

“Watson if you powers of deduction were as good as mine, you would have noticed the “M” pattern on the fur on the head, meaning that “The Cat” was a spy sent from Professor Moriarty, but luckily I noticed this from the beginning and kept all records of my fight against the dark powers of Moriarty locked away in the safe at the bank on the corner of Baker Street. You may have noticed that I made no mention of the cases I had been working on during the months “The Cat” was here concerning the evil doings of Moriarty.”

“You mean it was all a sly plan from Moriarty to discover our secrets of deduction.”

“MY secrets of deduction Watson” Holmes said. “And furthermore Watson, “The Cat” was last seen boarding a boat for a cross channel journey. My Baker Street Irregulars informed me of its intentions, and my continental connections, known as “Les égouts parisienes” tell me that “The Cat” is at this moment licking the hand of the hated Professor Moriarty and both are now on their way to Switzerland. My deductions tell me that we will meet again at the Reichenbach Falls.”

“Holmes, I will accompany you on your perilous journey.”

“No Watson, you will be of more help if you remain in Baker Street. I will depart tomorrow on the channel crossing. We will see each other one day again. In the meanwhile, please do not believe everything you hear. The proof of the matter lays in the logic.”

That was one of the last conversations I had with Holmes for some time. The next morning he departed with the ferry to Calais. He was seen from time to time playing his violin on the boulevards of Paris for an audience of cats. They seemed to love the tones of his instrument.

When he arrived home, Sheila his wife was already in a deep sleep and Fred was glad. No point in waking Sheila, she would not have very much understanding for his slightly inebriated condition. He climbed into bed and was soon in a deep sleep. Unfortunately it snowed all night and Fred was on standby for snow removal. It was a well paid job working for the local town, but it had its disadvantages. After a short sleep lasting four hours the telephone rang. It was not just a telephone, but the special mobile he had for emergency calls from his employer.

“Morning Fred” said the voice on the other end of the telephone. “We have a problem, heavy snowfalls all night and it has to be cleared away, otherwise it could become very dangerous.”

Although Fred had picked up the phone and was listening to the voice at the other end belonging to Charlie, his chief, he did not really understand as much as he should have, still having an alcoholic cloud blocking clear thoughts in his head.

“Is that you Charlie, what’s the problem? Snowing? Let it snow.”

“No Fred, the problem is that it is lying thick on the streets and it is your job to clear it away. You are on standby, remember.” Charlie was getting quite annoyed and the last word was said somewhat louder.

It was then that Fred awoke. He had a vague memory of stumbling through snow on his way home yesterday, or was it today.

“OK Charlie, stay cool I am on my way” actually meaning he was on his way from the bed to the bathroom. There was no time for a shower. Just a quick cat lick with a wet cloth, although he decided cleaning his teeth would also be a good idea. He left the house and the cold morning air hit him in the face like a sledge hammer. He took a step towards the garage and fell on his face. Was he still drunk, or was it the snow. He decided it was the snow. Thank goodness he had the snow plough in his own garage.

He climbed into it and drove off, still feeling just a little bit queasy. Luckily he did not have to clear the motorway, just the local streets in the village. If someone had been watching him drive they would have noticed that he was not exactly creating straight lines in the snow, but more something like a ski slalom, a little to the right and a little to the left. It was then that it happened. The plough at the front of the tractor came to a halt, so Fred put his foot down on the accelerator and there was a damp sound of something being run over.

Fred suddenly woke up, yes he had fallen asleep whilst driving.

“What was that?” he thought to himself (actually a bit more flowery, but we do not have to go into details here).

It was then that the door to a house opened just opposite the place where Fred had stopped. He heard a frail voice from an elderly lady.”

“Tiddles, Tiddles, where are you. Time for you breakfast. Oh, hello Fred, busy clearing the pavements and roads from the snow so early in the morning; have you seen Tiddles, my cat, she went out five minutes ago, and now it is time for her breakfast.”

“Morning Mrs. Jones” Fred said. “No I havn’t seen her” wondering what he had run over with his tractor and hoping it was not Tiddles. Tiddles was not just a cat, but Mrs. Jones cat. He remembered when she had called the firemen to get Tiddles down from the tree in her front garden. They had to call an ambulance as well, as Mrs. Jones had a shock. “I hope it wasn’t Tiddles” he thought.

It was then that he looked to where the tractor had come to a stop and saw something black peeping through the snow. Tiddles was a black cat, Fred remembered.

“Tiddles, Tiddles” Mrs. Jones now had a slight tinge of excitement in her voice and Fred felt weak in his stomach to say the least.

“There is something black peeping through the snow just behind your snow clearing machine” Mrs. Jones said.

“I don’t see anything” said Fred, trying to kick snow over the black thing showing through the snow.

“Of course, there is something black there.” And it was then that a stifled cat meow could be heard.

“That is my Tiddles Fred, “what have you done?”

Fred was feeling very worried, more than worried, he decided he would never touch a glass of alcohol again in his life. He saw himself being accused of murder from a very distraught Mrs. Jones.

“Fred, what have you run over with your snow plough. Tiddles, oh Tiddles. Please dig him out Fred.”

Fred decided to look the fact in the face, that he had become a cat murderer. He returned to his plough and took the shovel he had for emergencies. He had to climb over the seat to reach the shovel and then heard again another very plain and loud meow. He looked down and saw Tiddles had made himself comfortable in a blanket Fred had on the back seat . Was Fred happy, oh yes, he was.

“Mrs. Jones, I have found Tiddles. He is here in my driving cabin.”

Mrs. Jones was happy to have her Tiddles and Tiddles was also glad as he was feeling hungry, it was his feeding time. Mrs. Jones was so grateful that Fred had found Tiddles, she invited him in for a coffee and something to eat. Fred willingly accepted.

That morning Fred finished his job clearing the snow, but had learnt a lesson. If you are on emergency call, do not go out the evening before and be careful when clearing snow from the pavements. There might be a cat near bye. Oh, and the black thing peeping through the snow was one of those plastic bags used for rubbish. The garbage men were expected on that day.