I missed blogging Friday, so I’ll do it today--which is Saturday and I don’t usually post on the weekend.

My first week here, we had a fly that constantly landed on our dining table.  We named him “Sam.” Nobody in the dining room did anything about it--so I found a flyswatter and killed him.

 He was immediately replaced by another fly.  And the six women at my table agreed to name him “Joe.”  Within a week, one of the women deep-sixed Joe.  And we thought that was the end of the flies.

There are around twenty tables in the dining room, and since Joe and Sam both seemed to favor our table--we decided it was the sugar everyone used in their tea.  And we also thought we were done with flies.

However, yesterday a new fly found us.  He is doomed; it is just a matter of when.  But he will go to his doom with a name.   We are calling this fly “Jim.”  You would think the flies would have caught on by now that this is personal to our table of women.  We’re already talking about what we will name the next one after Jim has been swatted into fly-ever-after.