A few months ago, I was sat out in the garden enjoying the sunshine, when a pair of pure white butterflies appeared in my vicinity, as if from thin air. I gazed at them with astonishment as they danced around before my eyes like a pair of flipping twats. I simply can't abide butterflies and their impudence in invading my privacy so rudely and unacceptably filled me with disgusted amazement. I immediately charged off to fetch my gun with the intention of showing them exactly who it was they were dealing with.
I will admit with hindsight that my choice of implement with which to teach the cheeky butterflies a lesson was somewhat misguided. Perhaps my purposes would have been better served by a net, which I could have used to pluck them out of the air before throwing them to the ground and crushing them with my boot. As it happened, my wild gunfire was easily evaded by my insect foes, but not so easily by one of my neighbours, who was killed instantly by a stray bullet, making a complete mess of the clean clothes she was hanging out to dry in the process.
These days, I have a lot of time on my hands to contemplate this unfortunate incident, having been sentenced to twelve years in prison for manslaughter, on the grounds of diminished responsibility. The worst part of the whole affair is that the white figures dancing before me weren't butterflies at all, they were in fact flashing white dots that had began to appear due to years of excessive drug-taking and lack of sleep. They remain with me as a constant reminder of what happened that sunny afternoon, but I derive some consolation from the fact that they're not real butterflies. If they were, I cannot predict what my reaction would be, although it would surely result in time being added to my sentence. You see, I really hate butterflies.
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