Mosquito season

I was tempted to entitle this post 'Amos', in honour of that old knock-knock joke, the one that goes, 'knock knock'
'Who's there?'
'Amos.'
'Amos who?'
'A mosquito.'

This lingers from my childhood and comes to mind often in these hot summer weeks. Just this morning I went out into the garden to pick raspberries, and was almost carried away by those biting bugs. Presumably, they object to my impinging on their territory, or do they simply like the taste of my blood?

Vampires!

Certainly they bite me much more than they do my husband, who'll call to me to come outside when he's being bitten. My daughter-in-law has a theory that mosquitoes prefer O-negative blood. She might have something there. On our recent holiday, the family member who suffered the most bites were her, my son (not her husband) and her eldest child. Shame, as we say in sympathy in South Africa. For me, the good thing was that I seemed to be fourth in line!

In Cape Town when our children were small, we had a friend visit who was teasing them with tickling. He pointed a finger high above his head and threatened as he brought it in a downward spiral amidst much mirth 'Here comes a mosquito from Swaziland!' So now if a particularly big mozzie is flying around, we say 'There's a mosquito from Swaziland.'

I've learned to suffer those first few minutes of burning sting without scratching. But these days, I'm allergic to certain mosquito varieties (of which there I many, I believe). Then I anoint myself with Weleda Combudoron gel (no, I'm not getting any kickback). Sometimes it takes three applications to quell the swelling.

Why don't I simply use bug spray? It's because I don't like to put poison on my skin, or to breathe it in, for that matter. And what do I do if I don't have the gel handy? Heat works. So if you see me holding a tea- hot cup or coffeemug to my arm, or ankle, or whatever, don't think I'm crazy. See?