It’s the midges that get me. I mean, literally get me. They’ve always been interested in me, but since I got my hair cut short and applied liberal amounts of styling product to it, the wee sods seem to make a bee-line (midge-line?) for me. Of course, my hair is so mad that it’s the equivalent of a lost explorer finding themselves in the middle of the Catacombs of Paris without a map: once they’re in there, they simply ain’t finding their way out. Or maybe they get stuck in the gel, I don’t know. Anyway, the fact remains that when night falls and I’m outdoors in a wooded area, my scalp becomes an adventure playground with on-site diner for travelling midges.
I itched and scratched and jumped and complained and wriggled and yelped and rubbed.
“Would you like me to spray you?” offered my dear friend McBouncy, kindly. Alarmed, I backed away. Fortunately the bottle she was brandishing turned out to be insect repellant, and I grudgingly allowed myself to be doused. “Let us spray,” remarked Monkey Man, observing the scene from a distance with some amusement.
The spray was about as effective as a scarecrow made of birdseed. Itching and half-eaten, I jumped at the chance to go into the town for a while, and joined some others in Dee’s car. “Argh!” said Betsy, flapping wildly in the back seat. “There are 2 midges in here!” She rolled down her window, looking alarmed and confused at my yells of protest, and watched in dismay as 893 midges swarmed in. “Oh, right,” she said, meekly rolling the window back up. 895 more midges joined the party in my hair.
I love camping.