ZANZARE

Zanzara was one of the first words I learnt in Italian when I started studying it in '85. My tutor liked the word's onomatopaeic quality so mentioned often how beautiful a word it was. I'm not so sure though. Unlike French mosquitoes, which do buzz loudly before assaulting you, I am finding that either I am going deaf in my old age or these Italian zanzare aren't zzzzzzing. The evil, nippy, blood-sucking, poisonous little bastards just sneak up on me and dine out like they think it's Xmas. I have lost count of the lumps on my legs and my pack of antihistamines say not to touch them if I am pregnant. I am coming close to not caring.
Tonight, after yesterday's thunderstorm, they seem more numerous than usual. I am unable to venture outside without being divebombed. The kids are out though. They (the zanzare) tired of their taste on day two. Why am I still on the menu?
I take pleasure in sitting bare-legged waiting for each little bastard to land on me and then squashing it dead. That may be nasty but I can't sleep for the itching so I am deriving a certain satisfaction from making these godless creatures suffer as they have made me suffer. I imagine catching them and simply pulling off their little daggers and then freeing them into the wild unarmed.
Mosquitoes are, to me, the ultimate proof that there can be no God.