My night started out fine. I was lying in bed, reading a literary masterpiece. Well, not quite. It was another “pink cover” book. I don’t even know its name, but everyone finds love and all is good in the world and at some stage someone buys a great pair of shoes and a handbag. I have a pile of them on my bedside table. The “pink cover” books are a hangover of pregnancy and newborns. The crazy hormonal imbalances of pregnancy and then the zombie-like, post-pregnancy state combine to make it impossible for me to read anything of substance. Consequently, I have a rule that when I go to the library I pick out only books with pink covers. With three children threatening to scream, run or pull books off the shelves, I rush up and down the aisles madly shoving all the “pink cover” books into my library bag. I’ve even sent my husband to get me some. He was more embarrassed borrowing “those” books than getting me tampons from the chemist. Thankfully, I am presently nearing the end of my “pink covers” stage as there are only so many happy endings one person can stomach. Anyway, I digress. I was reading.

Lying there quietly. Ok, that’s not entirely correct. I’ll have to stop again. Baby 3 was intermittently gurgling, crying, laughing and then at times snoring while she slept. And my friend, the 2 Year Old Who Never Sleeps, was lovingly not sleeping beside me. In general, it was not very relaxing, but in terms of my daily life, lying in bed, albeit with a loud baby and a “nose honking” 2yo is quite peaceful.

So, there I was in a bed staring at a book with a pink cover, trying to ignore two of my children, hoping Nearly Four wasn’t about to join us and pretty confident my husband wouldn’t be “trying it on” with an audience. The heroine in my book was about to get married, because that’s what girls do in “pink cover” books. They get married, buy shoes and work in the media, fashion outlets or in public relations. I was engrossed in the story. Will the wedding at The Plaza go off without a hitch? Will her dress be ready in time? Will her new shoes match? Will her PR campaign for the rockstar, with the crazy whirlwind life catapult him up the charts and lead to the promotion she desperately needs to pay her credit card debts? Will she grow a brain? And then, it happened. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Is that a mosquito? I will kill you mosquito. Now, although I do eat meat and wear leather, I am a pretty free spirit. I am not a supporter of fox hunts or killing spiders. I find it hard enough playing the Buck Hunter game on my phone. (Ok, that’s a blatant lie. I love shooting the little deers and even though I don’t get points, I even try and kill the rabbits and the birds). However, there is something about mosquitos which transform me into a killing machine. If they were silent, I don’t think they’d bother me. If I was wearing headphones I could cope with the bites and the itching. It’s that fucking bzzzzzzzzzzz sound. It drives me insane. It is well and truly up there with “I want something to eat” and the Home and Away theme song.

As mosquito season has only just begun, I am out of practice, so no matter what I did I could not swat it. I jumped, I slapped, I ran around my room clapping at nothing in the air. I knew it hadn’t chosen to fly out of my room. I knew it was lying in wait for me to get comfortable again. I knew it was watching me. And what’s worse, I begun to suspect there may have been more than one. It was an ambush and I was their prey. They wanted to suck the blood out of me whilst driving me insane with their never-ending, high pitched, soul destroying cries. They were punishing me for reading “pink cover” books, for crimes against writing.

Not successful in my hunt for the insects, I settled back under the covers and began reading again. My husband joined me in bed, after taking the now sleeping 2yo back to her room. It was finally quiet. Even the baby was sleeping. As I lay there, I spied a mosquito on the ceiling. I jumped up and threw myself into the air, trying to pounce on the unsuspecting creature. Once again I missed. At the last second, it darted off and I made my descent onto the bed. “No way,” I screamed, defeated. “Aaaaarrggghhh,” my husband yelled out in pain, as my foot landed directly in his crotch.

No longer could I focus on the pages of my book. My husband kept going on about “the pain” and I was too busy trying to work out ways to trick the mosquitos into “thinking” I was relaxed, so they would come back to harass me. It was my plan to ambush them, but they knew. They stayed away, until we turned off the light, until we entered that peaceful, just before you fall asleep moment. Bzzzzzzzz. I wrapped my pillow over my ears, trying to drown out the noise. It didn’t work.

For the rest of the night, my husband and I tossed and turned as the nasty little creatures bzzzzzzzd around our heads and occasionally you could hear the sounds of slapping, as we both attempted to swat the mosquitos – each time we’d miss, each time we’d slap ourself on the head. It’s going to be long, hot Summer; you better watch out mosquitos, because I’m working on my aim and next time, instead of knackering my husband, I’ll get you, you tiny little fuckers.