No flies on me


There’s a mosquito somewhere in our apartment, and it hides, waiting for it to get dark. Lying in bed I hear the whine of it approaching, but never manage to catch it. Every day I wake up with welts where it’s feasted on me.

The mosquito doesn’t like the cold, so it stays out of the bedroom where Felicity sleeps. Elsewhere we have no air conditioning, but then it’s also easier to sleep when there isn’t a wailing baby in the same room. But then of course there’s our insectoid co-tenant, supping away on our blood.

Last night I slept in the same room as my wife and baby. There’s less sleep to be had, but it’s less lonely than an empty bed and a whining bloodsucker. If you’re lucky, then the baby might sleep for a full six hours and then you’d feel dumb that you’d gone off on your own when you could have had a decent night’s sleep, and had your family close by, and not been chewed on by the mosquito.

But last night, that was not to be. About three a.m. she sprang to life, inconsolably awake, and though for a while she enjoyed playing with my hand, dragging it through the bars, she was mostly focused on making a loud, heart rending noise.

Having little experience at lactation, there wasn’t much I could give her that she wanted, so I retreated to the spare room, and played Guess Where The Mosquito Is, while, like an angry punctured balloon, La Serpienta Negra made horrible sounds of deflation and woe.

Did I mention the mosquito?

I was thus a broken man this morning, and today was not a constant joy. This was despite morale boosting visits later in the day from wife and child, and by six this evening I was struggling mightily. I went home, I did exciting things like washing up dishes, and now I wait to see if I have another appointment with the flying weight-loss machine tonight or not.


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