Somewhere between here and there, between a road and a field, between a footpath through a woods and a garden with a path covered in moss I was attacked. An ant perhaps, or a murderous mosquito? A horse fly or a flea? Whatever it was had a right good go at me, trapped inside my shoe as it went on its way, ripping chunks from my flesh. Now the creature is gone, but its trail of destruction is left, itching like a bastard!
The wasteland across the way is a breeding ground for biting insects. And at this time of year they seem hungrier and more savage than any other. They are preparing to die, in the inevitable frosts, and they are turning even more poisonous in this bitter ascent to oblivion.
The spots have formed miniature volcanoes that are oozing a lava of clear body fluid. I have to scratch them some more even though I shouldn't, it gives me great relief but is short lived. Ravaging my skin with my blunt nails so the area looks even worse. Roll on the winter and let it be a cold one!
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