Wednesday 28th July
I’m starting to suspect that Mrs Muck is working for the mosquitos. Too many things just haven’t been adding up since we got here, and I have been tossing and turning all night thinking about it. Mostly tossing.
The facts are these:
Mrs Muck has unusually few bites, while I am covered in them. I’m starting to look like the elephant man with chickenpox.
Her attempts to kill them have been strangely unsuccessful, and those that she claims to have killed aren’t splattered all over her hands, but in one piece, as if found on the floor after dying of natural causes. I suspect that staff at the mosquito morgue have been supplying her with cadavers to pull off this ruse.
She has continually tried to stop me drinking the insect repellant, citing that it will probably kill me. Likely story. I’m going to buy a secret supply of DEET, and drink it on the rocks with coke.
Our attempts at making the bedroom a mosquito free zone have been sabotaged at every turn. Doors have been mysteriously left open, and windows not closed properly.
I think you’ll agree that all this points undoubtedly to Mrs Muck being the Mata Hari of the insect world, and I am going to have to make a decision soon as to my course of action.
I was arrested this morning at 0455h for attempting to swat Mrs Muck with a spatula from the kitchen, while screaming “insect queen!” at the top of my voice.
I was taken to Bridgetown police station, and put in a cell to calm down while a doctor was called. Once he arrived, it didn’t take him long to diagnose me with mosquito psychosis, a rare but serious tropical disease.
He assured me that there is no mosquito mother ship hovering above us, nor is my wife a double agent who works for the mosquitos and is leading the conspiracy against me. There are no mosquito morgues, and therefore no mosquito goons delivering dead bodies of their family and friends to Mrs Muck.
It took him about an hour to convince me of all this, or more to the point it took me about an hour to convince him I was convinced. There was no way I was spending any more time in a police cell, or at the Barbados branch of the Rampton secure bong unit when I could be lazing on the beach. I should have won an oscar for my performance, and I was a free man by 7am.
My spatula and bottle of DEET are in my bag, and I’m keeping a close eye on Mrs Muck. Just don’t tell anyone.
It didn’t stop raining all night, but by daybreak the skies had cleared, and we are once again on Gibbs Beach on the west coast. I have fallen in love with this beach. It is near deserted, beautiful, and intimate in the way the houses back directly onto it, and the trees overhang the sand. It is almost dreamlike, and it’s ambiance in itself is enough for me to vow to return to Barbados.
We stopped first at Sandy Lane and took a look at the hotel, where rooms cost between $800 and $8000 US dollars per night. Personally, if I was that rich I wouldn’t stay in a hotel. I would have a private villa, with a well stocked bar, dancing girls, and no neighbours. What goes in the villa stays in the villa…
There really is nothing better than being nicely toasted, lying on a tropical beach, listening to trance. If ever a genre of music was made for this, it’s trance. This truly is heaven. Well, without the dancing girls, obviously.
As I drift off, I’ll leave you with one of the strange thoughts passing through my head, although these may be less to do with a toke on Sandy’s herbal cigarette, and more with the remnants of the mosquito psychosis.
Anyway, it just occurred to me that if there is a God, does he ever wonder who created him? And likewise, if his God wonders who created him?
Maybe the universe is nothing more than a series of Russian dolls, fitting inside each other into infinity…