This part of the world is a veritable doily of lakes and swamps, meaning that in summertime mosquitoes are endemic.
I did not know that.
I do now.
Mosquitoes always like my blood the most out of anyone in any given group and here was no exception. When outside one day after a rainstorm and in the lea of the wind, I thought I was safely wrapped up in jeans, boots, long sleeves and a scarf. I was wrong. Any uncovered area was a target. Any covered area was a target. I was bitten all over the face, in the hair, on the tantalising chink of love handle revealed between jeans and jumper when you bend over, on the larynx, in the nostril, on the pancreas.
I’ve got a rather seductive picture of my bite-riddled arse for posterity (anticipating the posterior joke, I give you a ‘ba dum dum chhh’) but I’ll spare you that one.
Instead of complaining relentlessly and showing my swollen bites to anyone who will look as in years gone by, I sought to take preventative action. On day two I thought I’d ‘double bag’ and try the leggings under jeans trick. They bit through. I don’t know what they make the dogged mozzies of here but the army should look into it as some sort of bio-weapon. Perhaps it is sheer volume, but I get the sense that these are a Chuck Norris variant.
This meant war. And donkey-grade antihistamines.
If you could do something worse to mosquitoes than squashing them, I would do it. Instead I enjoyed myself killing as many as I could, chasing them down if necessary. Buddha, turn away now for you will not like what you are about to see.
When I was on the bus one day I looked around to notice that the windows, handles, poles and floor were all covered in the smears of former bugs. I do not wage the war alone.