I am beginning to understand that there are seasons in the battle between mosquito and man.
When I first arrived in Castelldefels I thought (due no doubt to shaky biology teaching earlier in my life) that living close to the sea would be something which would deter these spiteful insects from feasting on my body. I was confirmed in this supposition by the complete lack of poisoned proboscis piercing my skin in the first nights by the sea with doors and windows wide open.
Then there was a suggestion (no more than that) of precipitation and with this mere thought of rain the winged avengers swooped in and had their fill of blood. Windows were closed, electric devices were placed in plugs and the monsters were kept at bay.
It turned out that the sophisticated counter measures of the local supermarket were of less effectiveness than the fact that mosquitoes seemed to prefer Toni’s flesh and blood to mine. In Wales I was told by a member of the blood transfusion service (in the days when they were eager for my sanguinary flow) that my blood group, A+, was the most common in the country. Perhaps the mosquitoes in Catalonia are used to a different vintage and A+ is a little passé for the discriminating devotee of the liquor of the vein!
Whatever the reason, I was left comparatively unscathed while t
Toni’s legs began to resemble a relief map of the Pyrenees. At times like those you have to feign sympathy and keep close so that a mosquito can chose the tastier option!
This all worked very well until we came to the end of September when I was informed by Toni that we were now entering a more interesting period in the animal/insect conflict when the flying daggers would attack anything with a pulse.
Now my legs began to develop that tell-tale itch which if resisted and treated with ammonia (‘cos that’s all the anti bite liquid is) would calm and the little chappies in the blood would do their stuff and deal with the poison.
There was one bite just above the ankle bone which, in spite of an almost irresistible call to a sharp nail for relief I made a conscious decision to ‘ignore.’
My strength of purpose has been displayed many times. I made a conscious decision to be influenced by a Jimmy Saville advert and conscientiously ‘clunked and clicked’ for each car journey from that point; I gave up biting my nails; I have constructed IKEA furniture; I have sat though an entire performance of ‘Tristan and Isolde’; I have learned to like dry white wine after being a confirmed Sauterne drinker – I have the will. Sometimes.
It is one of the hardest things in the world to ignore a mosquito bite. I remember reading of one man in a concentration camp who decided to commit suicide by holding his breath. With an amazing breadth of determination he actually managed not to breathe until he reached the point of unconsciousness – and at that point of course, the automatic systems of the body kicked in and his body saw to it that he started breathing again.
Even when you are telling yourself that a scratch now will mean hours or days of misery later (together with an unsightly scab) your automatic systems are directing your unsheathed nails southwards for a long northward scratch. Usually this scratch will be of the cupped four finger kind. This sort of scratch is a harrow-type coverage of a whole section of the leg. Your brain is trying to tell you that you have an ordinary itch in the area and, if by chance the mosquito bite might be itched as well that would be an unlooked for bonus from something which was not intended to be specific.
This is the same sort of delusional reasoning that allows people to think that what they are going to do is merely scratch ‘around’ the bitten area. Or, in an even more delusional rationalization, merely ‘rub’ around the area.
We have all gone through it and all the fallacious reasoning that we use to gain relief.
At the moment, although it might be tempting fate, I can speak of such things in the past tense. My period of tastiness for the pestilential stingers seems to have passed.
I have however been informed that November too is a time of trial.
I only hope that they are not biding their time for a concerted attack to make up for lost Welsh corpuscles!
When I first arrived in Castelldefels I thought (due no doubt to shaky biology teaching earlier in my life) that living close to the sea would be something which would deter these spiteful insects from feasting on my body. I was confirmed in this supposition by the complete lack of poisoned proboscis piercing my skin in the first nights by the sea with doors and windows wide open.
Then there was a suggestion (no more than that) of precipitation and with this mere thought of rain the winged avengers swooped in and had their fill of blood. Windows were closed, electric devices were placed in plugs and the monsters were kept at bay.
It turned out that the sophisticated counter measures of the local supermarket were of less effectiveness than the fact that mosquitoes seemed to prefer Toni’s flesh and blood to mine. In Wales I was told by a member of the blood transfusion service (in the days when they were eager for my sanguinary flow) that my blood group, A+, was the most common in the country. Perhaps the mosquitoes in Catalonia are used to a different vintage and A+ is a little passé for the discriminating devotee of the liquor of the vein!
Whatever the reason, I was left comparatively unscathed while t
Toni’s legs began to resemble a relief map of the Pyrenees. At times like those you have to feign sympathy and keep close so that a mosquito can chose the tastier option!
This all worked very well until we came to the end of September when I was informed by Toni that we were now entering a more interesting period in the animal/insect conflict when the flying daggers would attack anything with a pulse.
Now my legs began to develop that tell-tale itch which if resisted and treated with ammonia (‘cos that’s all the anti bite liquid is) would calm and the little chappies in the blood would do their stuff and deal with the poison.
There was one bite just above the ankle bone which, in spite of an almost irresistible call to a sharp nail for relief I made a conscious decision to ‘ignore.’
My strength of purpose has been displayed many times. I made a conscious decision to be influenced by a Jimmy Saville advert and conscientiously ‘clunked and clicked’ for each car journey from that point; I gave up biting my nails; I have constructed IKEA furniture; I have sat though an entire performance of ‘Tristan and Isolde’; I have learned to like dry white wine after being a confirmed Sauterne drinker – I have the will. Sometimes.
It is one of the hardest things in the world to ignore a mosquito bite. I remember reading of one man in a concentration camp who decided to commit suicide by holding his breath. With an amazing breadth of determination he actually managed not to breathe until he reached the point of unconsciousness – and at that point of course, the automatic systems of the body kicked in and his body saw to it that he started breathing again.
Even when you are telling yourself that a scratch now will mean hours or days of misery later (together with an unsightly scab) your automatic systems are directing your unsheathed nails southwards for a long northward scratch. Usually this scratch will be of the cupped four finger kind. This sort of scratch is a harrow-type coverage of a whole section of the leg. Your brain is trying to tell you that you have an ordinary itch in the area and, if by chance the mosquito bite might be itched as well that would be an unlooked for bonus from something which was not intended to be specific.
This is the same sort of delusional reasoning that allows people to think that what they are going to do is merely scratch ‘around’ the bitten area. Or, in an even more delusional rationalization, merely ‘rub’ around the area.
We have all gone through it and all the fallacious reasoning that we use to gain relief.
At the moment, although it might be tempting fate, I can speak of such things in the past tense. My period of tastiness for the pestilential stingers seems to have passed.
I have however been informed that November too is a time of trial.
I only hope that they are not biding their time for a concerted attack to make up for lost Welsh corpuscles!
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