June 24, 2013

So, after a busy and fairly productive day, and a weekend away, come five o’clock this afternoon it seemed like the perfect time for a spot of gardening to try and catch up with the weeding backlog. The wind had dropped, the sun was tentatively appearing, there was no shortage of weeds: what better way to fill a late afternoon hour than a spot of horticultural therapy?

Wrong. I’ve never really been troubled by midgies around here – maybe a few prickles on a damp mild September afternoon when clearing out old vegetation, but nothing like further west (there was a memorable family holiday in the Mull of Kintyre where we all developed a sudden fondness for mackerel fishing as out to sea in my uncle’s boat was about the only place where the midgies couldn’t get us). But here, today, for some reason, it was absolutely bloody torture. You don’t see midgies and you don’t hear them and you don’t even feel them exactly – it’s more as if you’ve become allergic to the air because suddenly every inch of exposed skin is on fire. I stuck it out – I’m really very behind with the weeding – but it was murder and my eyelids are itching even now. And my scalp. And my neck. Even just thinking about it.

Time to dig out the Smidge… anybody else getting midged?