How tasty do you think you are?
I have few firm beliefs. I’m a bit woolly as far as my opinions and ideals go. I refer to it as being moderate if I’m being kind to myself, hopelessly non-committal when I’m feeling critical.
But I do believe I’m tasty. Tasty like a perfectly cooked steak, a box of posh chocolates or a cold beer on a hot day.
My whole family’s pretty tasty too. Tasty runs through our veins. It’s part of who we are. Sink your teeth into us and you will not be disappointed.
Don’t though, it would be a bit weird, unless you’re a mosquito, or midge, or whatever be-winged bloody thing decided to dine on me the other night.
“Welcome to Chez Babberblog Mr Mosquito, we have an excellent table available at the top of the thigh, or, if sir would prefer, the junction of the foot and ankle is looking particularly juicy this evening”
I got off quite lightly really. My hungry assailant covered a lot of ground, but only stopped off for a feed in eight locations.
That’s nothing compared to the EIGHTY-TWO bites I counted on just one of my legs following a night camping in the New Forest a few years ago. The tiny vampires must have been out en masse that evening. I was haute cuisine for all of insect kind.
Believe me, I don’t mind doing my bit for the food chain. I eat enough of the stuff, it’s good that I can put something back in (without having to die and become worm feed).
But why oh why must the resultant welt spend the next few days itching so much?
Insistent and incessant, it is the itch you can not scratch, even if you do.
*scratchscratchscratchscratchscratch some more*
Inevitable though, I suppose, given the heat we’ve been having. Hot weather means open windows. Open windows means freedom of access for the bitey little bastards.
I like to think that somewhere there’s a miniature version of the internet, where well heeled midges post reviews of their dining experiences. In that tiny online world my body is the equivalent to Heston Blumenthingy’s Fat Duck. World renowned. Exclusive. Occasional giver of food poisoning.
So far it seems I haven’t passed on my tasty genes to
Cam. He remains resolutely bite free. This, I suspect, is a Good Thing. Has he experienced itching yet? I don’t know. But I know I don’t want a bite to be his introduction to the feeling.
Poor little dude, with his embryonic, flailing version of motor control, he’d never be able to co-ordinate the focused, angry, frustration fuelled scratching necessary to soothe the itch of an insect bite. I’d have to do it for him, and I don’t suppose society looks kindly on fathers who scratch their children.
No. Being tasty is yet another aspect of myself which I’m hoping hasn’t made the magical genetic journey into my son. I want him to be bland as a McDonald’s burger, or a raw potato.
Leave him alone midges, or I’ll be after you, with all the RAID spray and fly swats and rolled up newspapers I can muster.
Right, I’m off now, I have something very important to do.