Mozzies, be warned!

By admin
20 September 2013

Venture into this house and your short bloodsucking life will be a whole lot shorter

“I see one”. Three simple words that make my heart sink to the floor. Because I know the peace will soon be shattered. I turn over sleepily to see Husband gazing up at the ceiling as a child would gaze in wonder at the stars. But this is not wonder. Oh, no! This is deadly intent. Look closer. See the fierce concentration, the tongue sticking out of the mouth, the tweezer lips . . . the exquisite anticipation. My blood-spattered ceiling is about to become a bit bloodier.

Yes, it’s mozzie season and no one is safe, not even me. “Ooh,” I purr, thinking it’s the start of a promising slap-and-tickle session. Then I realise the sharp smack of a flip-flop on my derriere is just in fact my crazed spouse launching into attack mode against a mosquito that has settled in for sundowners on my dimpled thigh.

Pity the mosquito dumb enough to come anywhere near our house. It’s a minefield in there. The last thing you’ll see is a malevolent rolling eyeball followed swiftly by THWACK -- your life snuffed out in a heartbeat, the remnants of my precious children’s blood still warm in your tummy unceremoniously splattered over the ceiling/wall/wife’s rump. You have become a splodge.

And if a pillow doesn’t get you, be warned: your demise could be a whole lot nastier. Like a caveman with his club, Husband roams restlessly around the house in daylight hours, scouring the landscape for enemies. In his hand is tightly clutched an innocent-looking racket. A cruel deception, for if you are a mosquito and you have the ghastly misfortune of coming into contact with said racket, you . . . will . . . fry! It’s the death row equivalent of the electric chair and the noise is just as alarming.

Husband is beyond thrilled our sons are mastering the art of mosquito-zapping. Each time there’s a sickening crack as another hapless insect meets its fiery death I jump out of my skin while he beams proudly. “Atta, boy,” he says. Forget riding bikes and conquering long division: this is a true rite of passage!

Husband’s bedside table is a sight to behold, a veritable treasure trove of repellents: citronella wipes and candles, Tabard sprays and rub-on sticks, Peaceful Sleep plug-in mats, lotions, creams (apologies to any manufacturers not mentioned, but your products are on that table too, I promise).

Peaceful sleep? I think not. At night I shiver in bed as the ceiling fan whirrs menacingly on full speed. “It keeps the mosquitoes at bay,” he insists as he settles in to a deep, duvet-hogging sleep.  For now I am safe. Sleepless, freezing and spitting mad, but safe.

And then there is the inexplicable reproach if, heaven forbid, one of us actually gets bitten. Somehow, without it being expressly stated, it’s Mom’s fault. “Son No 1 was bitten last night. Did you put lotion on him before he went to sleep?” Whatever my reply, Husband’s response is a mournful, deeply disappointed shaking of the head, a “do-I-have-to-do-everything-around-here” sigh and a theatrical rifle through the medicine cupboard for the anti-histamine cream.

I don’t think I can take this any more. The sleepless nights, the zaps, the blame ? it’s all too much. I’m even thinking of calling in those forensic cleaner-uppers who come to a home after a crime scene to wash away the blood and gore. They have their work cut out on my ceilings and walls, I can tell you.

So mozzies, be a pal: your lifespan is short enough as it is. Take your proboscis and go somewhere nice. I hear Langebaan is good this time of year. Just go, please, and don’t come back, you mothersuckers!

By Sandy Cook

Picture: dr_relling - Flickr

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