The Sex of a Fly

Hilly lent me his post hole digger ‘cause I’m putting up a fence around me veggie garden, so I could give it some defence from marauding sheep and cattle that some keep on their block, and forget about their fences, so I feed their wandering stock. They eat all my silver beet and give me cabbages all hell, and what the mongrels don’t prefer they trample in as well, but I suppose there is one upside with growing what they eat, for now and then the neighbours stock have saved us buying meat. That post hole digger made life easy where it twisted in the ground, instead of digging with a shovel that near breaks me back I found. So with treated pine snug in their holes and rails upon the face, I cleaned up the post hole digger to return to Hilly’s place. I thought I’d leave it ‘til the morn although it has to be ‘round eight, for that’s the latest Hilly’s sober, so nine o’clock is way too late. But as it happened I slept in and got around there close to ten, then for a moment I had thought that Hilly’s drunk again. He was prowling ‘round the kitchen with a fly swat in his hand, sneaking up to where the blighters were trying hard to land. I asked him what he’s doing and with a mad look in his eyes, Hilly said one got in his porridge so he’s killing all the flies. Well I suppose sometimes we lose the plot and do get over keen, but he would have got ‘em in one go by spraying with mortein, so I asked him “Have you killed a few?” Then heard one of his jokes, “Yeah, I’ve cleaned up five” he said - “Two sheila’s and three blokes”. I could see that he’s fair dinkum ‘cause they’re splattered on the sink, but how he knew what sex they were made me stop and think. I asked “How do you tell the sex of flies?” Of course I should have known when Hilly grinned - “Three were on the beer cans and two were on the phone”.