O tempora, o mosquitos

Mosquito season is upon us, following the coming of the rain with grim inevitability. This was called to my attention on Friday night, when I got bitten ALL OVER and spent the hours of repose tossing, turning, and scratching.

Saturday night: I lie in bed. And ominous whining fills my ears. I get up, put the light on, and kill two mosquitoes, including the biggest, ugliest one I have ever seen, which squishes in a truly revolting way. I retire with tranquil mind.

Sunday night: It is 1.30 am and I haven't had proper restful sleep all weekend. I turn out the light and lay me down to sleep. I think, I toss, I turn. Finally I am still. The room is still. The room is not still, there is a fucking mosquito in it. I get up. I put the light on. I stagger back to bed. I poke myself in the eye with my glasses. I spend a lot of time looking for an apparently invisible mosquito. I find lots of bits of fluff and small marks on the wall. I reflect that hunt the mosquito is a bit like hunt the thimble, only considerably less enjoyable. I find the mosquito, sitting on the wall. I hesitate - partly because splatting it while resting seems less sporting than splatting it in mid flight, partly out of disgust at splatting it on my wall, and partly because I am so goddamn tired. She who hesitates is lost. The mosquito flies away. I continue looking for it, this time without thought of mercy, until I am too tired to remain vertical.

Monday lunchtime: War has been declared. I vengefully splat a mosquito against the wall of the stairs on my way back to work after some lunchtime ping-pong. I walk back to the office with bits of mosquito and someone else's blood making my hand crawl.

I do not like mosquito season.

It is also the season of birds, which I do like. In Britain the limiting factor on new life bursting forth, including insects with which to feed chicks, is temperature, whereas here I suppose it is largely water, but Spring seems to be at about the same time. Which means the world is suddenly full of little birds, showing off and squabbling and singing and collecting nesting materials. Just a week or so ago began to appear fragile halves of tiny, translucent eggs (which as a child I would have joyfully horded in cotton wool and margerine tubs), and now are appearing the naked corpses of the newly-hatched, with their babies' beaks designed for gaping and their closed, bulbous eyes. They are sad, these little ones, but to me beautiful. Everywhere I am - in my house, in my office - I can hear the chirping of their living siblings.

It is not the season of dogs - I do not think dogs have seasons - but on the theme of fauna, yesterday I saw a puppy that I wanted terribly much to rescue. It was dusty and downtrodden-looking, sweet and black and soulful, and yelping pitifully at being kicked by a little girl to get it away from her mother or grandmother's flower stall. Well, not so much stall as a couple of buckets set down on the dirt. It is disconcerting to see a little girl kick a puppy instead of petting it. I am still toying with the idea of going back to look for it, but common sense asserts that I am not allowed dogs in my apartment, that getting it home would be near-impossible, that I have neither the time or the money to invest in a dog, and so on. I always thought I was a cat person, independent and reserved (ie unfriendly) as I am, but of course one's own characteristics don't necessarily make for the best pets. So a friendly, faithful dog it is for me, one day, at least until I can get my elephant.