It’s 10 am and I’m standing in my kitchen plotting a number of cold-blooded murders. I have researched the subject online, I’ve collected together the materials I need, I’ve identified the location but just as I’m about to deploy my deadly weapon I hear the sound of boots entering the house. Bins has returned from his morning walk.

“What are you doing there by the window?” he wants to know. “Nothing,” I say. “Oh ho!” he chortles, “that means you are doing something BAD! And you are waiting only for me to come back and stop you.” I assure him that he is wrong. In my hand, I hold an innocent glass bottle. “See?” I say. “It’s just a glass bottle. It once contained olives and now it does not.” But the bottle is not entirely empty and its mouth is sealed with cling-film. Bins tries to grab it from me and when he fails, he demands to know what’s going on.

“It’s the little tiny flies,” I say, “the ones that collect near the garbage bag.” I sigh as I speak, because I know he’ll want to argue about it. I hang a plastic bag by the window and use it to deposit kitchen waste. Every couple of days, I knot it up and chuck it into the Dunkin’ Donuts dumpster conveniently located in the neighbouring parking lot. Despite the frequency of my disposals, there’s always a handful of tiny creatures jittering by the plastic bag. “What?!” Bins exclaims. “The little baby ones? But they are so cute! That is so cruel, so heartless! No wonder the planet is dying — because of murderesses like YOU!”

“There’s NO poison,” I say. “All I did was pour a tablespoon of apple cider vinegar into the bottle, then a teaspoon of liquid detergent. Cling-film stretched across the mouth of the bottle, secured by a rubber band. A few holes poked into the cling-film.” I wave the trap in front of Bins. “See? According to the theory, the flies are attracted to the vinegar, they go in to investigate, take a sip and alas, drink the detergent too.” Bins narrows his eyes. “It will not work,” he declares. “They have good noses, these flies. They will go in through the holes, they will tour the region and then they will say, ‘Hmmm! Something smells very soapy!’ And they will fly out again!”

I decide to ignore this tide of negativity and position the bottle near the garbage bag. Bins stands by with a sardonic expression on his face. “For goodness’ sake!” I say to him, “Don’t stare at the bottle! You’ll spook the flies!” But he places a finger against his lips and whispers, “Woooah! A fly just went in! Instantly!” His eyes are sparkling with amazement. “It really works, huh, this stuff? But now we shall see, will he come out?”

Bins monitors the bottle the whole day long. By evening, there’s an impressive tally. “Fifteen baby flies — dead!” he reports. “Five fly out, four go back, one is still flying outside. I say to him, ‘Save yourself, little one, enjoy your freedom’... but – no! There he goes.” He sighs. “Flies and humans, huh? Can’t resist their poisons.”

Manjula Padmanabhan , author and artist, writes of her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column

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