Tousled dreams

It was hot last night. Like in swelteringly, unpleasantly, stickily hot. I have this clever fan that works on a timer, because normally I get cold after a bit. Last night, however, every time the thing went off I woke up feeling like a muffin in an oven. Seriously. And I had one of those killer mosquitoes. Which bit me just where I can’t reach to scratch. Bastard.

And it was full moon.

Boy, did I dream. First of being in a plane crash. We took off, and as we lifted into the sky, I heard the engines splutter and fade. Out of my window I watched as the land came hurtling toward us, panic rising. I think the fan switched off at that point because either I woke, or the rest is lost in the sands of sleep.

Then my recurring one. But with a twist. I was with a whole lot of friends and people I love who were all being mean to me in a very luxurious hotel at the seaside full of lifts and escalators. They were all being mean to me. Until I ran away. Then a bit of a blurry bit, until I was running along a coastal dust road, trying to get back to them. First I kept running too fast, and missing the entrance, then when I got in, I couldn’t get to my family, I was too tired, and my legs weren’t obeying me (the recurring bit). It was horrible, and I woke up filled with anxiety. Ugh.

Twenty+ degree nights, paired with the full, silvery moon (as pretty as she is in her finery) are not good for my psyche apparently.

I’m fun today, aren’t I?

Revenge of the mosquito

It is Winter. Anyone who has read this blog for a while will remember my monster mosquito problems and their stopping me from getting a good night's rest and then my not-so-clever attempts at getting rid of them in the Summer. Yes, that's what I said: In. The. Summer. The Summer, of course, being a perfectly reasonable time for monstrous mosquitoes to be flitting about your head, buzzing wildly, and sucking the life blood from your body.

However, it is Winter here (haven't you noticed my whinging?) therefore it is completely unacceptable that I was awoken last night by one of those very same monster mosquitoes buzzing around my head. The only parts of me sticking out of my lovely warm blankets were my forehead and one ear (the left, to be precise) because, like I said, it's Winter!

So where did the little guy go? He buzzed (and buzzed and buzzed) around my exposed ear. And then... the little fucker bit me on my exposed forehead, leaving an itchy bite above my left eyebrow. Lovely.

And did I mention... it's Winter! I told you these are anabolic-steroid super-mosquitoes, I wasn't exaggerating after all.

Am I destined to mosquito choir practice in Winter too?

I might well be not-that-bright, after all

It's been a funny old morning really. I woke up having seemingly lost the ability to string a sentence together. Or, at least, unable to think of the words to put in said sentences. The Pond was kindly taking me to work as my car is going in to have it's insides checked out (it seems to be leaving a puddle of something on the driveway and it's way too young to just be incontinence). Anyway, we are quite talkative, The Pond and I but, at one stage I actually just had to keep quiet because I was trying to tell a story about paste, as in 'that stuff you use to brush your teeth with' but I couldn't find the word. Very strange.

Then, when I got into work and logged into Stalkbook for my daily fix of Scrabble moves, Stalkbook was talking to me in Afrikaans. All the links and everything. Now, while I am actually quite a fan of the lanuguage (who couldn't love a lanuguage where candy floss is called 'spookasem' which means 'ghost's breath'), it does seem a bit in-your-face of Stalkbook to just decide to do that, of it's own accord. It provided for some sniggering from me though (still being unable to string sentences together, I am limited to making noises, like sniggering, or grunting). My one friend became a fan of a band and, in Afrikaans, he's now going to be an 'aanhanger' of Sugardrive. Snigger. Literally translated, that means a 'hanger on'.

Good grief, and this post was supposed to be about those damned massive mosquitoes again. It's a funny story really. So I took everybody's advice about getting an anti-mosquito weapon. Putting some thought into it, I remembered that, in fact, I did own one of those pluggy-inny-anti-mosquito-poison-emitting-things. It was just a matter of finding it. So we rumbled around and looked in all the normal pluggy-inny-anti-mosquito-poison-emitting-things hidey holes, with no success. We even looked behind The Fridge (which, by the way was fixed on Monday but it still seems to not be getting terribly cold - I fear it might be getting to that age. You know the one. When The Fridge needs to be 'sent to The Farm').

To cut what could become an awfully long story short, we eventually looked in my bedside cupboard to find it snuggling cosily between a very old cellphone recharger and a Barbara Trapido book. It was lit up by the light behind me, like a ray of sunshine through the clouds and looked positively, well, heroic I guess.

So, on Sunday I dutifully went to sleep, safe in the knowledge that the massive mosquito family would happily buzz off elsewhere, leaving me at peace. But no, at approximately 2:03am (give or take a minute), I awoke to hear one, two, and then the whole blooming chorus. I swear I could hear them setting up the choir stands, drinking tea, breathing in the poison quite happily and chatting in their high little mosquito voices before practice. And then practice began. It sounded like they were doing a Beatles medley of sorts this time.

Monday I decided to persevere, thinking maybe it was just some freak anomoly on Sunday night, and if I tried again it would be better. No such luck. This time at about 1:24am (and please remember, it's full-moon-periodical-insomnia-time for me anyway right now). I spent the awake hours listening to them most productively wondering if I dressed up in a mosquito suit when sleeping, they'd leave me alone.

Then The BFF came over last night and I whinged at him about my problem (a sound, I'm sure, not unlike the mosquito choir). He picked up the offensive plug, looked at it, and said "You need to put a pad in it". Bugger. It's supposed to have the little poison-emitting pad in it. I was happily 'sleeping' with it, sans the poison. No wonder the massive mosquitoes weren't perturbed by it. Hmph. And... blush.

So, yes, a funny old morning. I wonder where I could find a massive mosquito suit to use as pyjamas?

Disturbing dreams and tragedies

I awoke out of an inappropriate dream this morning. Very, very. I can’t tell it here, lest I get locked up in a very tight white jacket. Let me just say that it was an extremely disturbing mix of adult sexuality and childhood naivete and involved somebody, well not unexpected, not even unsuitable (he'd probably be the most suitable, if he were present), but just, kind of weird feeling. I am SO not ready to acknowledge those sub-conscious thoughts. Yet. Moving on swiftly.

Those monstrous mosquitoes I spoke about before? Yes, well, they’re thriving. Despite the fact that The BFF came over to play last night and killed approximately four thousand two hundred and twenty six (give or take a couple), after he left, the rest of the family (and boy, do those guys know how to breed) came out to play.

The Pond (she who is so wise about sore wings, and vodka) has moved back into my house for two months between leases and I was (quite cruelly I realise, but dire circumstances excuse such behaviour) hoping her sweet blood would draw the bastards away from my room, and to hers. Not happening.

Needless to say, I had plenty of thinking time. So I got to thinking about tragedies (as one does in the dead of night, while listening to Beethoven’s 4th being buzzed at you by a choir of mounstrous mosquitoes, or was it Nine Inch Nails? I can’t be sure ). Not like in the Shakespeare version, but more the common garden version. Not that tragedies could ever be ‘common garden’ really, but you get what I’m saying.

So I got to wondering if each of us gets to experience one great tragedy in our lives or some people get away with none. I suppose it’s all in the context. What’s a tragedy for one person is not really a tragedy for another. I’ve had mine already (well I hope I don’t have another big one, that one was enough for me). I broke, literally and a bit later figuratively and I still can’t tell you which of those was worse. I’m not sure I’m completely fixed yet. Okay, that’s a lie. That sentence order is wrong. I’m completely sure I’m not yet fixed. Hmm, this is a longer story than I thought. Let me leave that one there.

There was also some discussion last night on the fact that, in this life, you may be paying for the sins of previous lives or those of your ancestors, which could explain hardships (and tragedies). I struggle with this concept. I am of the belief that, when we die, our souls split up into tiny silvery pieces that fly about and land themselves in everybody we’ve ever known or touched. That’s how our characters build as we get older.

I just don’t like the idea that what I do wrong now will have to be paid for by my ancestors or future lives. It seems unfair, and horrible. So I think I’ll stick to my philosophy for now.

I still wonder though, if some people are lucky enough to get away tragedy-free?

The creepies and crawlies

I am very lucky to live in a house with few creepy-crawlies of the "Oh-my-god-get-it-away-from-me" kind. I do have some four-legged, furry versions who are snuggly and sweet and lovely and, well, a bit eccentric, but endearing in their eccentricities.

However, after saying that, I've probably spoken too soon and, as we speak, the Cockroach Circus are trailing their little cockroach-sized trailers down my driveway, setting up their cockroach-sized Big Top in one of my kitchen cupboards, while the bearded cockroach lady chats up the three-armed strongman cockroach behind the popcorn stand... I digress.

I am, however, blessed with mosquitoes. These are not any normal mosquitoes though. They are magnificently enormous mosquitoes. Like in rat-sized. Seriously. These things have been on steroids they bought illicitly at the gym since they were born. In fact, their mother's were on the steroids at the time of conception. They flap around my head (and it's breezy when they flap, being so huge and all - my hair blows around), flexing their little mosquito muscles, and singing. Boy, do these guys like to sing. At the tops of their little mosquito voices.

I think perhaps that they have chosen my bedroom as the perfect spot for choir practice. I can understand that - my room is cool and purple and quiet... Except for a rather disturbing buzz from the TV, when it's off. Hold on. Could that be it? They're not coming to choir practice, they're responding to the mating call of my very-much-off-TV. Good grief. There I was, worrying about the effects that buzz was having on my sleeping psyche (do psyche's sleep?) when, in fact, I should be worrying more about my causing hundreds of monstrously large mosquitoes sexual frustration. Poor things, buzzing around searching frantically for the gorgeous girl mosquito with the beautiful voice. But never finding her.

I wonder if I should switch it off at the wall?