On insect bites (for which I have a low tolerance)
What is it with insect bites? And are they are all mosquitoes (or is it mosquitos), or other bewinged, bitey things?
And why is it the rule that if you make all the effort to go on holiday, just about the first thing that happens is that you get bitten. Of course, the saying goes, bitten to death, but I have not at all been bitten to death, although I have managed to garner at least six unattractive red bites, plus one suspected one on my forehead.
I’ve had the hot spoon out this morning and applied it with vigour, so the itching has receded, but the fact that I got bitten at all is still trying to ruin my day (if not my life). My adult, pre-frontal cortex brain is telling me to get a grip, so what, no big deal. But my childlike brain is wailing that what we should really do is lie down and die in a corner because there’s just no point carrying on when one is literally covered in insect bites.
If only I could holiday with just my adult brain, and not the child one, life would be so much more worth living. Today’s task: Project Pull Yourself Together.
In the meantime, the actual adult of the party has bought flypapers galore which are currently festooned around the kitchen. Perhaps this low tolerance is genetic.