Monday, 27 June 2011


The beautiful weekend is done and gone.  We enjoyed it thoroughly.  This morning I feel like I was out way past my bedtime and have the nagging feeling that I might have done something that was caught on film and will forever mar my chances of taking a public office. 
I didn’t.
What actually happened is that we experienced the first proper summer night of the season.  And while it was lovely to not have to cart that extra layer around (though I still did, and some other things besides.  Or I should say Pete did.  Sorry, baby.) it is not lovely for sleeping.  It was a very still night and all the windows were open, but there was no movement.  This might have been rectified by opening the blinds a bit, but as I have described earlier, our neighbours’ windows and back patio have a direct view of our bedroom and marital bed.  However, I would have been more than willing to allow viewing of our sleeping patterns if it would have brought a breeze without bugs.  It would not.  Because, like the rest of Europe and the world, as far as I can tell, for some unknown reason Britain does not do screens.  It’s not like they don’t have flying bugs and mosquitoes.  They do.  They just seem happy to let them cohabitate.
I am not happy to do so. 
I open our windows and back patio doors pretty much every day in the spring and summer when there is no rain (so about 10 days.  I kid.  12.) and within moments there are at least three very large, very lazy, flies bouncing their way through the flat off of every window and mirror they can find.  Of course, they never find their way back out again without strong direction from some rolled-up paper good.  They can't identify the gaping open air of the ajar door, but they can thread the needle of the barely open blinds like maneuverability pros.  Most days I strongly will myself to ignore them, or at the very least turn up the TV/music to a level that drowns out, what I can only believe are suicide attempts.  However, on my baking days, which are steadily increasing with my prolonged unemployment much to the distress of my newly svelte waistline (and the waistlines of my neighbours, friends, local shop owners, random strangers), the flies drive me to the brink of committing insectal genocide.  If they were smart, they would stay away.  Do they not see the scores of empty snail shells littering the back patio?  We have already started down the path of evil, it will not take much more to tip me over the edge!! (I should note that I did shed some tears over the snail incident.  I didn’t realize we had so many and watching them turn into florescent green bubbles is quite horrifying.  If they just stayed away from my basil these steps need not be taken.)
But nothing is worse than the incessant buzzing of a bouncing fly on a sticky, sleepless, restless summer night.  I find that they love to take breaks from bouncing off the wall by dive-bombing my ear.  Or maybe it’s a game.  They hover above the bed and play ‘How close can you get to the ear of the semi-sleeping giant before she sits bolt upright in bed arms flailing and yelling obscenities much to the distress of her slumbering husband who can sleep in any condition despite his arguments to the contrary.’ 
If that’s the case, the three (thousand?) from last night had a rip-roaring time. 
Now I think on it, considering the potential viewing audience outside our bedroom window (and my summer sleeping state of undress), my feeling of dread over in-criminating/decent video may be well founded. 

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