Celine Gibson

I'm working your house, round mid-morning – windows and doors open to fan the summer breeze – nice one.

Your old lady’s in the kitchen boiling cabbages; I’m salivating already, but first things first. You’ve just had a dump in the bathroom (speaking of cabbages), and man, you are haphazard: peppered the porcelain like you was Jackson Pollock. Show-off.

I head outdoors to find Junior scrabbling in the sand pit. Boring! I join him anyways. He spades dirt into a bucket then stops. Junior’s found himself a dog turd. Hallelujah, Junior! must learn to share.

We’re nearly done when old Fat Cat appears; she barfs beneath the clothesline then continues on her way. No apologies, nothing. Fat Cat knows staff clean up her messes. Staff gets busy.

It’s growing hotter. Then, from the north it comes, an odour so thick, so tantalising.

I surf the air stream, ride the waves; I’m primed and pumping. Then I see her.

Mouth open, big, black, inviting. I plunge down, down till I reach rock-bottom. All is fetid, rank, putrid. Carcasses, innards, eyes, rotted flesh, piss and pus, crappy nappies, toxic waste, acid and rust, putrefied clothes...Oh, foulest filth sublime! Oh, lucky, lucky me!


Sated, I make for the light, back to your house - you’re preparing a barbecue…ain’t that sweet? Meat on the grill, virginal, red, dripping. You go indoors to fetch another beer.

I shake up my Calliphoridae DNA, and shimmy on over to blow some.