A man can't even get into his own bed at night without cold-blooded murder taking place under his own roof.
Take last night, for example, went the air was rent with screams:
This is followed by various sound effects including - but not limited to:
"Die!Die!DIE! YOU BASTARD!"
"WHY WON'T YOU DIE?!"
"And what," I ask of a beaming Mrs Duck, "is going on in there?"
"There was a fly. In the bathroom."
"And you killed it, you dreadful murderess. You killed it to DEATH."
"I didn't kill the thing. It committed suicide."
"Riiiight. Did it leave a note? Did it tie itself a tiny noose and hang itself from the loo roll holder, squeaking a tiny 'Goodbye cruel world'?"
"Err... no. It flew into the light and fell down the toilet."
"And how do you know that it wasn't a tragic accident, brought on by your murderous intent? Answer me that, clever trousers."
So she clubbed me in the fork. I hate it when they get the last word.