In the last few weeks, I’ve been kept awake by a multitude of marauding mosquitoes. They suck so much of my blood I’m always surprised to find I’m alive in the morning, and that the mosquitoes still look so tiny when they should have the most bulbous of bellies.
But, despite this nasty, nightly feasting, I can’t help feeling sorry for Morris the Bathroom Mosquito.
Don’t get me wrong; I hate the little buggers as much as anyone. As concrete proof of this, here is a poem a teenage version of me, driven half insane with fury, wrote in the middle of the night on a holiday in Wales with my friend, Sophie.
The poem goes like this (it’s not going to win any literary prizes, that’s for sure :-D) :
And for further proof, here is another excerpt from the same holiday diary.
But, even so, I still can’t help but feel sorry for Morris the Bathroom Mosquito…
Every time I go in, I’m quick about it. I don’t hang around in the bathroom like I do in the lounge or bedroom. It’s a place for hurrying – if you take too long, the rest of the family get cross. So it’s a quick up and down to the toilet, or a speedy jump in the shower before someone sabotages the hot water flow by washing-up in the kitchen.
And every time I’m in there, Morris the Bathroom Mosquito does his very best to get to me in time. To grab a micro-sip of blood or two before I can get away. But he never quite makes it. His buzzing noise sounds weak and broken. He limps through the air like a helicopter with engine trouble. Little Morris is fading away before my eyes.
So next time, I might just put aside my well-documented hatred of mosquitoes, roll up a sleeve, and save a starving mosquito called Morris.
And here is the lesson for the day: YOU SHOULD NEVER NAME A MOSQUITO