Diary of a St Ivean

Walking down Wharf Road early one morning this week, I see a man on the pavement near the Alba restaurant shouting across the road to a man on top of some scaffolding. He's saying something about someone being killed.

But - getting closer - I realise it's not people but deceased flies he's talking about and he's telling the man on the scaffolding a joke.

A man swats five flies and tells his companion that three were male flies and two female.

"But how did you work out what sex they are?" his companion asks.

"Easy," says the swatter. "Three were on beer cans and two were on the telephone."