Itchy and Scratchy

Spring hasn't quite sprung, and the grass ain't quite riz, and I don't particularly wonder where the birdies is.

But I do know where the insect life is.

Yes, indeed. Hungry after a long winter, the buggers are waking up and looking for something to eat. And they've found me, the little sods. It's bad enough them taking mouthfuls of me without asking, but they're doing it to my back, where it's hard to reach round and smear on the Anthisan antihistamine cream.

Little buggers.

So far I've managed, by contorting into really rather uncomfortable (not to mention almost impossible) poses, to keep the worst effects at bay, and just about get the cream in the right places to stop the wheals itching. But at the grand old age of 46, I'm not the bendy toy I once was, and I fear that something spinal might lock, and I shall have to scuttle crab-like down to the local surgery while the locals mock, scoff and cast buns.

Back in September, just before becoming the main course for the collected insects of the Peak District, I had boasted that after a single bite early on in the year, word gets round the insect community and I never suffer further attacks until the next spring. I'm hoping that still holds true, and that the karma pixies aren't still chastising me for that moment of unguarded bravado.

To make matters worse, I can't find my back scratcher purchased in Virginia some years ago, and easily the best dollar I ever spent.

I last saw it about six weeks ago in the possession of DT sans LJ.

I think he may have eaten it. I'll bloody mullah him if he has.

Itchy and Scratchy

Spring hasn't quite sprung, and the grass ain't quite riz, and I don't particularly wonder where the birdies is.

But I do know where the insect life is.

Yes, indeed. Hungry after a long winter, the buggers are waking up and looking for something to eat. And they've found me, the little sods. It's bad enough them taking mouthfuls of me without asking, but they're doing it to my back, where it's hard to reach round and smear on the Anthisan antihistamine cream.

Little buggers.

So far I've managed, by contorting into really rather uncomfortable (not to mention almost impossible) poses, to keep the worst effects at bay, and just about get the cream in the right places to stop the wheals itching. But at the grand old age of 46, I'm not the bendy toy I once was, and I fear that something spinal might lock, and I shall have to scuttle crab-like down to the local surgery while the locals mock, scoff and cast buns.

Back in September, just before becoming the main course for the collected insects of the Peak District, I had boasted that after a single bite early on in the year, word gets round the insect community and I never suffer further attacks until the next spring. I'm hoping that still holds true, and that the karma pixies aren't still chastising me for that moment of unguarded bravado.

To make matters worse, I can't find my back scratcher purchased in Virginia some years ago, and easily the best dollar I ever spent.

I last saw it about six weeks ago in the possession of DT sans LJ.

I think he may have eaten it. I'll bloody mullah him if he has.