L

Tell me something, began Pliny the Elder this morning.

What? Anything? I asked.

No, he said. You did not wait till I had finished. Upon what principles do you decide whether an insect or an arachnid should live or die, once it manifests itself inside your house?

I know why you're asking, I said. You are thinking of the Huntsman spider that I killed yesterday.

Indeed, the Huntsman spider, said Pliny. The evidence of the savagery with which you killed it is still there upon the wall.

Is it? What evidence?

A large L -shaped smear, said Pliny. A brown horizontal line made by the impact of the broom, and a upward thrusting spurt of red ending in an exclamation mark at the point where the wall meets the ceiling.

If you saw it, I countered, why didn't you clean it off?

Why didn't you clean it off yourself ? asked Pliny.

I didn't see it, I replied. But you obviously did.

I cannot be expected to clean up the remains of your killings, said Pliny.

Why not, I clean up the remains of yours, I said.

Mine? he looked incredulous.

There was a large dead blowfly on the bathroom windowsill this morning, I said accusingly..

Nothing to do with me, said Pliny. It died of its own accord.

Flies don't just die of their own accord, I said.

No, said Pliny. Sometimes they get a little help from you. I saw you step on the one that had been drifting around inside the house for days. You squashed it, and then you picked it up with a tissue, threw it in the wastepaper bin and bent down to examine the underside of your shoe. And yet, I have seen you go to great lengths to save the life of a fly.

Well then, I said crossly.