Cease thy malevolent meddling with me, Mozzies, or it’ll be the Spray from which there is no Bodily Return!
Covered in bites – from bastard mosquitoes, I am assuming – and sweating like the proverbial dray horse, I am in no mood to be pleasant or kind or understanding! In fact, my irritability has gone into the red danger zone and is, in many ways, indistinguishable from yer actual bloody furious raging!
Oh, it’s nobody’s fault! Weather affects the old and young, sick and well, saintly and evil equally and indiscriminately. I ain’t taking this personally. But I am hacked off with the heat, infuriated by the insidious insects and am, in general, craving caverns of caressing coolth.
Honestly, this kind of climatic condition does bugger-all for a girl’s self-esteem – seriously! If I were on the hunt for a bloke (not high on my agenda at present), I’d be foraging around for large sacks to hide my body in and adopting a full-face-covering veil to obliterate the red weals, the tomato-hued visage and the constant salty waterfalls of effing sweat.
I feel – and no doubt look – hideous, would be fighting Grendel’s Mother for the Mere-Wife Most Reminiscent of a Gargoyle Award. The only good side of this unending Trial by Heatwave is that I am, and most unlike me, currently off my food (other than a shared splurge on home-made chocolate ice-cream with divers other members of Shadow of the Tor last night, that is!) – so might actually shed some of the rolls of adipose tissue which, at present, cause my outlying areas to settle back down several minutes after the rest!
Honestly, though, this has long been a source of mystery and infuriated jealousy in the Browning Breast: How is it that every other woman I know manages to look gorgeous and sexy and winsomely wet and curvaceous in this kind of weather, while I look like something the cat ate in-advisedly and then sicked up immediately? What is it about me that acts as a permanently open door to every frigging mosquito in a five mile radius, eh? I can imagine the little buggers telling their friends and family, ‘Hey! Got a ripe one here, Chaps! Get here pronto!’
I feel in imminent danger of Spontaneous Human Combustion, and may well end up as one of those medical mysteries in which a lower limb, sock and shoe still in place, is the only sign a person actually ever existed! Either that or instant and rampant Malaria from the Hun-like hordes of rapacious little fuckers feasting upon my dermal largesse!
Right: I’m off to ‘apply’ the cheese-grater to my multiple itching welts…