My hand on your flies.
My good friend Sylvester was looking very concerned.
“I really think I ought to get my junk out,” he said, sounding very distracted.
“Well,” I replied. “If you must!”
We were standing around a table in the greenhouse, in my garden. The smell of ripening tomatoes filled the summer evening air. On the table was a neat little pine box, containing some beautiful lures which…