Honey

I used to think that mosquitoes were the worst insect scourge in the world, but in the absence of mosquitoes, flies will do quite well. They seem to love me, these flies, no matter how much I swear and wave my arms around and stomp and behave like vinegar. They were so bad on our walk yesterday that, in a very un-Mathewson show of defeat, I agreed to turn back before we'd even gone 1/3 of the 8 kilometers. This is practically unheard of--Mathewsons, as you know, never stop doing something they want to do, even if they're exhausted and sweaty and looking like Pig-Pen (which Ian didn't deny, when I asked. In fact, he said "yes, you do!"). IRRITATING.

We had some in our room, too, for about 24 hours. It's not so bad at night, when they sleep too, but they wake up with the sun (read: a couple hours earlier than I want to) and find any bit of exposed flesh that they can, and perch there with their shit feet. They even flew up my little breathing tunnel when I covered my head with the sheet. DISGUSTING. And we couldn't find a flyswatter anywhere.

Anyway, after our aborted walk yesterday, I went home, rage in my heart, and with a brochure for the park, killed every last one of the two flies in our room (there had been three, but Ian had managed to catch one in one hand in a weird pseudo-Karate Kid move. But, I tell you, they seem like hundreds when they're flying into your nose and landing on your lips). And they haven't been back since.