Malarious visions

Out in the North Atlantic, off the coast of Africa, a teeny tiny grey ship bobs on the rough seas. A tired, lonely mosquito lies back on his bunk, grabbing a few hours of precious rest between shifts. His mind wanders, wistfully, to long hot summers in London Town and the amazing times he and his friends had back in the city, when there was flesh as far as the eye could see. Gazing up, he focuses on the tattered snapshot stuck to the underside of the bunk above, and loses himself in silent contemplation, imagining being back in Dulwich once again.

Swear to God - I am a mosquito porn star. If there was a mosquito version of FHM, I would be voted sexiest legs in the world. I have no idea what causes it, and even less how to avoid it, but I need to spend approximately 2 minutes anywhere (indoors or out) wearing any type of clothing and I will end up with bites agogo all over my body.

A couple of weeks ago, a Helen's leaving party (prior to the St Helena trip mentioned below), I turned up at midnight and stayed (in the living room) until about 2.30am. In that time, the little bitey bastards not only located my legs beneath my jeans, they also found my waistband and arms and had an absolute field day. I woke up the following morning to find a fair impression of orion's belt on my leg and what may or may not have been the Southern Cross on my arse.

The bites take weeks to heal, meaning the old ones overlap with the new ones and my legs look like I have some kind of vitamin deficiency or contagious disease. Not only that, but upon returning to Ireland last week I discovered that - thanks to Global Warming no doubt - even a line of latitude closer to the North Pole than the equator is no longer a guarantee of safety. Popping out for a fag at 11.30 at night on my first evening, I was confronted with the unmistakable sight of a skinny wee body with stupid wings battering its face off the window trying to get into the house. The bloody thing probably followed me from London. Either that or the Web 2.0 revolution meant that news of my arrival spread quicker than the airline transporting me north, and in the manner of a 16 year old's Bebo house party advert, before we knew it Ballymena was overrun with uncouth, disaffected mosquito teenagers intent on munching up a once serene, well mannered community.