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…