Unlucky, Donald.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know; but I'm not really here.

You didn't see me, right?

Its just that I have a fly up my nose, literally, and when one's cranial cavities are hard at work decomposing the invading forces, well then, gee, it always helps to share.

So there I was, pottering around just outside the front door, waiting for the workmen to turn up when I turned into the path of something large and black that was heading for the bay tree and/or rosemary bush, directly behind me.

Please, remind me for next time; if a flying insect of any variety should happen to do the whole bastard kamikaze thing, top speed, into one's right nostril, it really, really, REALLY helps not to gasp.

I resisted the urge to squirt water up there after it, for fear of flushing the entire carcass along toward my throat.

Big mistake.

I tried and tried to blow my nose hard enough to shift my unwanted visitor, but he is wedged somewhere above the roof of my mouth, round the corner and out of the draft, so no luck.

So now the builders are here, and I am wandering around, painfully conscious that a battle is going on - my defences are hard at work trying to subdue something with a large exoskeleton, which is probably still very much alive and thrashing about a bit, like Donald Pleasance in Fantastic Voyage.

Every so often I feel the twanging nasal pain normally reserved for those who accidentally sniff up chlorinated water at the swimming baths, then find myself rushing to find somewhere to discretely spit mucous. I had no idea my body contained so much readily available water.

I can't help it, I aim for the sink bowl and not the plug hole, because I simply must have an opportunity (however brief) to establish whether the whole demolition process has begun. I mean, you see those damn winged things land in a bucket or a puddle, and they can survive for hours. Days, maybe.

I feel the need to go spit, again, but shall do so in the full and totally smug knowledge that now I have shared.

Lucky me, lucky you......