Diary of a Shopkeeper, 24th August

It’s taunting us…

Elsbeth and Creighton only appear in the shop about once a year: every visit is invariably such a disappointment that they vow never to return. Over the three or four years they’ve lived here, I’ve failed to sell them rare-breed goat’s cheese from Auskerry, rice grown in Paddy Westray, and otter salami from anywhere at all. The reason I’ve failed to sell them these things is that they don’t exist. Well, not as far as I know. But Elsbeth and Creighton insist they do, and the customer is always right. So I apologise, they poots, and I don’t see them again for a year.

The door banged open on a warm day last week and they marched in and up to the counter, bustling past Bruce Brass, who’d been slowly making his way towards me with an armful of home brew kits.

‘Fly papers,’ said Creighton.

‘Hello, and how are you today?’ I replied.

‘Or failing that, fly spray,’ said Elsbeth.

‘Or anything,’ he said, ‘To rid the house of these blasted flies. It’s a veritable plague.’

‘I emailed the estate agent to complain,’ said Elsbeth. ‘When she sold us the house, she didn’t mention that Stromness was subject to mass invasions of airborne insects. If it’s not flies its midgies. It should have been disclosed in the Home Report.’

‘It’s not just your house,’ I said. ‘And not just Stromness either. The whole of the county’s been invaded this past week or two.’

From behind an armful of Geordie Lager kits Bruce Brass chipped in. ‘Invasion’s the word, beuy. It all goes back to the Island Games. We’ve never had seekana influx of unkan folk since the Norskis came over.’

Creighton frowned. ‘The Norskis? What’s that? A winter sports team?’

‘Vikings!’ said Bruce. ‘Coming over here, stealing our brochs…’

‘Stealing your broth?’ said Elsbeth. ‘When was this?’

‘About 800AD, as best I recall,’ said Bruce. ‘Anyway, my theory is, when all those Island Games folk came from best kens where, they took their flies with them.’

‘Rubbish,’ I said, forgetting for a moment that the customer is always right, even when they’re completely wrong. ‘The Games were over a month ago, Bruce. And I live on the top of a hill in Stenness, and the nearest Games event was four miles away. I still got flies.’

He shrugged. ‘If you don’t like that theory I have another one. You said it yourself: rubbish. Have you seen the state of the bins? Overflowing! These are Orkney Island Council flies.’

‘Havers,’ I said. ‘The bins are no more or less full than they’ve ever been. They’re full at the end of the afternoon and empty the next morning. Anyway, there’s no bins anywhere near me and I still got hunders of flies.’

Bruce dumped the beer kits on the counter and turned to look all around the shop. Then he beckoned us to lean towards him and whispered, ‘I’ve cracked it. These aren’t flies at all. They’re drones. Probably Russian. Aye, that’s it, miniature Russian drones, sent over to spy on us.’

I laughed. ‘And they flew all the way over from Moscow on their peedie plastic drone wings?’

‘Ach! Moscow’s in league with School Place, surely. Every time the bin lorry goes past and they tip the rubbish in, what happens? Out comes a big cloud of flies. Those lorries are council aircraft carriers for Russian fly drones!’

He threw £20 down on the counter, grabbed his kits, and headed for the door. ‘Keep the change,’ he shouted over his shoulder.

‘You owe me 98 pence,’ I shouted back. But he was gone.

Elsbeth and Creighton exchanged a look. ‘What a peculiar fellow,’ said Elsbeth. ‘He certainly doesn’t like the council.’

‘How does he manage to make a living?’ said Creighton.

‘He works for the council,’ I said. ‘Quite high up, actually.’

‘More importantly,’ said Elsbeth, tapping a finger on the counter. ‘Are you going to sell us some fly papers or not?’

‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘I don’t have any. I’m a cheese and wine shop.’ I could see looks of frustration and fury flitting across their faces, so I quickly went on: ‘But I do think I can help. You can make an excellent fly trap by pouring a few tablespoonfuls of wine in an old saucer.’

‘Would a ramekin do?’ said Elsbeth.

‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘So, a wee bit of wine, and a drop of washing up liquid to break the surface tension. Put that on a window ledge or a bookshelf and it’ll draw the flies in like a magnet – and drown them.’

‘That’s unusually helpful of you, shopkeeper,’ said Elsbeth.

‘No problem,’ I said. ‘And I have a bin-end bottle here – an old bottle of Chilean rosé that’s been hanging around the storeroom too long. You could have that for a fiver.’

‘Absolutely not!’ spluttered Creighton. ‘Who do you think we are? Standards must be maintained. Have you not got something with a bit of class? A nice mature Châteauneuf-du-Pape perhaps?’

‘Over there,’ I said. ‘£43.99.’

‘If it gets rid of the flies,’ said Elsbeth, ‘It’s a price worth paying.’

A day or two after the events recounted above, the flies disappeared of their own accord. The spell of exceptional heat and stillness ended and with it the freak hatching conditions for the plague of flies. Vast quantities of fly spray and fly paper were ordered online (the local shops having run out) but by the time they arrived, they were no longer needed.

This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 28th August 2025. A new diary appears weekly. I post them in this blog a few days after each newspaper appearance, with added illustrations, and occasional small corrections or additions.