Citronella Burning

A mellow barber's-quartet harmony fills the night, it's musical notes fading then returning in rhythmic pulses. It would be almost pleasant if it weren't a collection of single pitches sounding as if they were hummed through tissue paper; a Kazoo of notes. 

I have to date 50 bites from those critters. Strangely, most congregating on the right of my torso and the bottom of the left leg. I scissor, obviously. What amazes me is that I see no evidence in the morning except the bites. I envisaged Far Side-esque fat pigeon sized blood suckers that could no longer fly trying to leave the room like drunks pouring out of a bar at closing time.

More obviously is their love for me. The sweetness of my blood would turn Dracula diabetic I am sure. So it must be my love of local wine and their love of my sugary cells that makes us such good bed pals. 

I am burning citronella candles Liberace style in my bedroom before turning in. This has helped me look less like a leper but I am still the Jane-Birkin-Evil-Under-the-Sun fashionisto when it comes to revealing my flesh on the beach. I do not want the children to be scarred for life.

Soon, very soon they will get bored with me. Until then I will sign off with an itch.